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CAMEOS 


SHORT STORIES 


BY 

MARIE CORELLI 

\ • i 

AUTHOR OF 

“A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS,” “THE SORROWS OF SATAN, 
“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN,” “ BARABBAS,” ETC. 


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9 9 

♦ n 



NEW YORK 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

238 William Street 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAR. 5 1901 

J >PYRIGHT ENTRY 

a/l- 

CLASS #XXc. No. 
COPY A. 


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?Z-3 

.C%^ G 


Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1901 
By Street & Smith 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 






J. 



NEHEMIAH P. HOSKINS, ARTIST. 


“I hev,” said Mr. Hoskins, “made up my mind that 
this ‘Daphne’ will be the picture of the year — that is, so 
far as visitors to Rome are concerned. I do not exhibit 
at the French Salon, nor at the English Academy. I 
find” — and Mr. Hoskins ran his hand through his hair 
and smiled complacently — “that Rome suffices me. My 
pictures need no other setting than Rome. The memories 
of the Caesars are enough to hallow their very frames! 
Rome and Nehemiah Hoskins are old friends. What?” 

This “What?” was one of Mr. Hoskins’ favorite ex- 
pressions. It finished all his sentences interrogatively. 
It gracefully implied that the person to whom he was 
speaking had said, or was going to say, something, and 
it politely expressed Mr. Hoskins’ own belief that no one 
would or could be so rude as to hear his eulogies of him- 
self without instantly corroborating and enlarging them. 
Therefore, when, on the present occasion, Mr. Hoskins 
said “What?” it was evident that he expected me to re- 
spond and make myself agreeable. Unfortunately, I had 
no flatteries ready ; flattery does not come easy to me, but 
I was able to smile. Indeed, I found it convenient to smile 
just then; the intimate association of the two names, 
“Rome” and “Hoskins,” moved me to this pleasantness. 


8 Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

Then, without speaking, I took up a good position in the 
studio and looked at the “Daphne.” 

There was not the least doubt in the world that it was 
a very fine picture. Drawing, grouping, coloring, all 
were as near perfection as human brain and hand could 
possibly devise. The scene depicted was the legended 
pursuit of Daphne by Apollo. It was an evening land- 
scape; a young moon gleamed in the sky, and over a 
field of nodding lilies came the amorous god, with flying 
feet and hair blown backward by the wind, his ardent, 
poetic face glowing with the impatience and fierceness 
of repulsed passion. Pale Daphne, turning round in fear, 
with hands uplifted in agonized supplication, was al- 
ready changing into the laurel; half of her flowing 
golden tresses were transformed into clustering leaves, 
and from her arched and slender feet the twisted twigs of 
the tree of Fame were swiftly springing upward. The 
picture was a large one; and for ideality of conception, 
bold treatment and harmony of composition would have 
been considered by most impartial judges, who have no 
“art-clique” to please, a marvelous piece of work. Yet 
the wonder of it to' me was that it should have been 
painted by Nehemiah P. Hoskins. The “Daphne” was 
grand, but Hoskins looked mean, and the contrast was 
singular. Hoskins, with his greased and scented hair, his 
velveteen coat, his flowing blue tie, and his aggressive, 
self-appreciative, “up-to-date” American “art” manner, 
clashed with the beauty of his work discordantly. 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 9 

“I presume/’ he said, twirling his moustache with a 
confident air, “that picture is worth its price. What?” 

“It is very fine — very fine, indeed, Mr. Hoskins !” I 
murmured. “What are you asking for it?” 

“Fifteen thousand dollars is my price,” he answered, 
jauntily. “And cheap it is at that. My friends tell me it 
is far too cheap. But what matter? I am not hampered 
by mercenary considerations. I work for the work’s 
sake. Art is my goddess ! Rome is my altar of worship ! 
I will not debase myself or my profession by vulgar bar- 
gaining. When I first set this picture up on the easel for 
exhibition I said fifteen thousand dollars would content 
me. Since that time my countless admirers have re- 
proached me, saying, ‘You ask too little, Hoskins; you 
are too modest, you do not realize your own greatness. 
You should demand a hundred thousand dollars !’ But 
no ! Having said fifteen thousand, I stick to it. I know 
it is cheap, ridiculously cheap, but never mind ! there are 
more ideas still left in the brain that produced this work. 
What?” 

“Indeed, I hope so,” I said, earnestly, endeavoring to 
overcome my dislike of the man’s personality. “It is a 
magnificent picture, Mr. Hoskins, and I wish I could af- 
ford to purchase it. But as I cannot, let me say, at least, 
how warmly I congratulate you on the possession of so 
much true genius.” 

Mr. Hoskins bowed, complacently. 

“A word of appreciation is always welcome,” he ob- 
served, grandiloquently. “Sympathy is, after all, the best 


10 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 


reward of the inspired artist. What is money ? Dross ! 
When a friend comprehends the greatness of my work 
and acknowledges its successful accomplishment, my soul 
is satisfied. Money can only supply the vulgar neces- 
sities of life, but sympathy feeds the mind and rouses 
anew the divine fires ! What ?” 

I really could not find any words to meet his interroga- 
tive “What?” this time. It seemed to me that he had 
said all there was to say, and more than was necessary. 
I took my leave and passed out of the studio, vaguely ir- 
ritated and dissatisfied. The “Daphne” haunted me, and 
I felt unreasonably annoyed to think that one so vulgar 
and egotistical as Nehemiah P. Hoskins should have 
painted it. How came such a man to possess the all- 
potent talisman of Genius? I could now comprehend 
why the American colony in Rome made such a fuss 
about Hoskins ; no wonder they were proud of him if he 
could produce such masterpieces as the “Daphne” ! Still 
thinking over the matter perplexedly, I re-entered the 
carriage which had waited for me outside the artist’s 
studio, and should have driven away home, had it not 
been for the occurrence of one of those apparently trifling 
incidents which sometimes give the clue to a whole his- 
tory. A little dog was suddenly run over in the street 
where my carriage stood — one of its forelegs was badly 
cut and bled profusely, but otherwise it was not seriously 
injured. The driver of the vehicle that had caused the 
mishap came to me and expressed his regrets, thinking 
that I was the owner of the wounded animal, as, indeed, 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 1 1 

I seemed to be, for it had limped directly up to me, yelp- 
ing pitifully, as though appealing for assistance. I raised 
the small sufferer in my arms, and seeing that it wore a 
plain brass collar, inscribed “Mitu, 8, Via Tritone,” I bade 
my coachman drive to that address, resolving to restore 
the strayed pet to its owner or owners. It was a pretty 
dog, white and fluffy as a ball of wool, with soft, brown 
eyes and an absurdly black nose. It was very clean and 
well kept, and from its appearance was evidently a favor- 
ite with its master or mistress. It took very kindly to me, 
and lay quietly on my lap, allowing me to bind up its 
wounded paw with my handkerchief, now and then lick- 
ing my hand by way of gratitude. 

“Mitu,” said I, “if that is your name, you are more 
frightened than hurt, it seems to me. Somebody spoils 
you, Mitu, and you are affected ! Your precious paw is 
not half so bad as you would make it out to be !” 

Mitu sighed and wagged his tail ; he was evidently ac- 
customed to be talked to, and liked it. When we neared 
the Via Tritone he grew quite brisk, perked up his silky 
ears, and looked about him with a marked and joyful 
recognition of his surroundings ; and when we stopped at 
No. 8 his excitement became so intense that he would 
certainly have jumped out of my arms, in complete for- 
getfulness of his injured limb, had I not restrained him. 
The door of the house was opened to us by a stout, good- 
natured-looking lady, arrayed in the true Italian style of 
morning deshabille , but who, in spite of excessive fat and 


ia Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

slovenliness, possessed a smile sunny enough to make 
amends for far worse faults. 

“Oh, Mitu ! Mitu !” she cried, holding up her hands in 
grave remonstrance, as she caught sight of the little dog. 
“How wicked thou art ! Well dost thou deserve misfor- 
tune ! To run away and leave thy pretty signora !” 

Mitu looked honestly ashamed of himself, and tried to 
hide his abashed head under my cloak. Curious to see 
the “pretty signora” alluded to, I asked if I might per- 
sonally restore the stray pet to its owner then and there. 

“But certainly!” said the smiling padrona, in melliflu- 
ous tones of Roman courtesy. “If you will generously 
give yourself the trouble to ascend the stairs to the top — 
the very top, you understand ? of the house, you will find 
the signora’s studio. The signora’s name, Giuletta Mar- 
chini, is on the door. Ah, Dio ! But a minute ago she 
was here weeping for the wicked Mitu !” 

Plainly Mitu understood this remark, for he gave a 
smothered yelp by way of relieving his feelings. And to 
put him out of his declared remorse, suspense and wretch- 
edness as soon as possible, I straightway began to “gener- 
ously give myself the trouble” of climbing up to his mis- 
tress’s domicile. The stairs were many and steep, but at 
last, well-nigh breathless, I reached the topmost floor of 
the tall old house, and knocked gently at the door, which 
directly faced me, and on which the name “Giuletta 
Marchini” was painted in neatidack letters. Mitu was 
now trembling all over with excitement, and when the 
door opened and a fair woman looked out, exclaiming in 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. i) 

surprised, glad accents, “Oh, Mitu ! car a Mitu !” he could 
stand it no longer. Wriggling out of my arms, he 
bounced on the floor, and writhed there, with yelps and 
barks of mingled pain and ecstasy, while I, in a few 
words, explained to his owner the nature of his misad- 
venture. She listened, with a sweet expression of interest 
in her thoughtful dark eyes, and a smile lighting up one 
of the most spirituelle faces I ever saw. 

“You have been very kind,” she said, “and I do not 
know how to thank you enough. Mitu is such a dear lit- 
tle friend to me that I should have been miserable had I 
lost him. But he is of a very roving disposition, I’m 
afraid, and he is always getting into trouble. Do come 
into the studio 1 and rest — the stairs are so fatiguing.” 

I accepted this invitation gladly, but scarcely had I 
crossed the threshold of the room than I started back 
with an involuntary exclamation. There, facing me on 
the wall, was a rough cartoon in black and white of the 
“Daphne” as exhibited by Nehemiah P. Hoskins. 

“Why !” I cried, “that is a sketch of the picture I have 
just seen!” 

Giuletta Marchini smiled, and looked at me attentively. 

“Ah ! you have been visiting the American studios ?” 
she asked. 

“Not all of them. This morning I have only seen Mr. 
Hoskins’ work.” 

“Ah !” she said again, and was silent. 

Impulsively I turned and looked at her. She was at- 
tending to Mitu’s injured paw. She had placed him on 


14 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 


a cushion and was bandaging his wound carefully, with 
deft, almost surgical skill. I noticed her hands, how re- 
fined they were in shape, with the delicate, tapering fin- 
gers that frequently indicate an artistic temperament — I 
studied the woman herself. Young and as slight as a 
reed, with a quantity of fair hair, partially lifted in thick 
waves from a broad, intelligent brow, she did not bear 
any semblance to that type known as an “ordinary” 
woman. She was evidently something apart from the 
commonplace. By and by I found out a certain likeness 
in her to the “Daphne” of Hoskins’ wonderful picture, 
and, thinking I had made a discovery, I said : 

“Surely you sat to Mr. Hoskins for the figure of 
Daphne ?” 

Smiling, she shook her head in the negative. 

I felt a little embarrassed. I had taken her for a 
model, whereas it was possible she might be an artist 
herself of great talent. I murmured something apolo- 
getic, but she laughed — a clear, sweet, rippling laugh of 
purest mirth and good humor. 

“Oh, you must not apologize,” she said. “I know it 
must seem to you very singular to find the first sketch of 
the 'Daphne’ here and the finished picture in Mr. Hos- 
kins’ studio. And it is really such an odd coincidence 
that, through Mitu, you should come to me immediately 
after visiting Mr. Hoskins, that I feel I shall have to ex- 
plain the matter. But, first, may I ask you to look around 
my studio? You will find other things besides that 
'Daphne’ cartoon.” 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 15 

I did look round, with ever-growing wonder and ad- 
miration. There were “other things,” as she said — things 
of such marvelous beauty and genius as it would be diffi- 
cult to find in any modern art studio. In something of 
incredulity and amazement, I instantly asked : 

“These studies are yours? You did them all yourself?” 

Her level brows contracted a little — then she smiled. 

“If you had been a man I should have expected that 
question. But, being a woman, I wonder at your sug- 
gesting it ! Yes — I do my work myself, every bit of it ! 
I love it! I am jealous of it while it remains with me. 
I have no master — I have taught myself all I know, and 
everything you see in this room is designed and finished 
by my own hand — I am not Mr. Hoskins !” 

A sudden light broke in upon me. 

“You painted the ‘Daphne’ ?” I cried. 

She looked full at me, with a touch of melancholy in 
her brilliant eyes. 

“Yes, I painted the ‘Daphne.’ ” 

“Then, how — why ” I began, excitedly. 

“Why do I allow Mr. Hoskins to put his name to it?” 
she said. “Well, he gives me two thousand francs for 
the permission ; and two thousand francs is a small for- 
tune to my mother and to me.” 

“But you could sell your pictures yourself!” I ex- 
claimed. “You could make heaps of money, and fame.” 

“You think so?” and she smiled very sadly. “Well, I 
used to think so, too, once. But that dream is past. I 
want very little money, and my whole nature sickens at 


1 6 Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

the thought of fame. Fame for a woman in these days 
means slander and jealousy — no more! Here is my his- 
tory and with a quick movement of her hand she drew 
aside a curtain which had concealed another picture of 
great size and magnificent execution — representing a 
group of wild horses racing furiously onward together, 
without saddle or bridle, and entitled “I Barberi. ,, 

“I painted this/’ she said, while I stood lost in admira- 
tion before the bold and powerful treatment of so diffi- 
cult a subject, “when I was eighteen. I am twenty-seven 
now. At eighteen I believed in ideals ; and, of course, in 
love, as a part of them. I was betrothed to a man — an 
Austrian, who was studying art here in Rome. He saw 
me paint this picture ; he watched me draw every line and 
lay on every tint. Well, to make a long story short, he 
copied it. He brought his canvas here in this studio and 
worked with me — out of love, he said — for he wished to 
keep an exact facsimile of the work which he declared 
would make me famous. I believed him, for I loved him ! 
When he had nearly finished his copy he took it away, 
and two days afterward came to bid me farewell. He 
was obliged to go to Vienna, he told me ; but he would re- 
turn to Rome again within the month. We parted as 
lovers part — with tenderness on both sides — and when he 
had gone I set to work to give the last finishing touches 
to my picture. When I had done all I thought I could 
do, I wrote to a famous dealer in the city and asked him 
to come and give me his judgment as to the worth of my 
work. Directly he entered this room he started back, and 


•7 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

looked at me reproachfully. ‘I can do nothing with a 
copy/ he said; ‘I have just purchased the original picture 
by Max Wieland.’ ” 

I uttered an exclamation of indignation and compas- 
sion. 

“Yes/’ continued Giuletta Marchini, “Max Wieland 
was my lover. He had stolen my picture, he had robbed 
me of my fame. I do not quite know what happened 
when I heard it. I think I lost my head completely for a 
time — my mother tells me I was ill for months. But I 
myself have no remembrance of anything but a long 
blank of hopeless misery. Of course, I never saw Max 
again. I wrote him ; he never answered. I told the 
picture-dealer my story, but he would not believe it. ‘The 
design of “I Barberi,” ’ he said, ‘is not that of a feminine 
hand. It is purely masculine. If Max Wieland is your 
damo, you do him a great and cruel injustice by striving 
to pass off your very accurate copy as the original. It 
will not do, my dear, little sly one; it will not do! I am 
too old and experienced a judge for that. No girl of 
your age was ever capable of designing such a work — 
look at the anatomy and the coloring! It is the man’s 
touch all over — nothing feminine about it.’ And then,” 
went on Giuletta, slowly, “the story got about that I tried 
to steal Max Wieland’s picture, and that he had broken 
off his engagement with me on that account. My 
mother, who is old and feeble, grew almost mad with 
anger, for she had witnessed his work of copying from 
me — but no one would believe her either. They only said 


1 8 Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

it was natural she should try to defend her own daughter. 
Then, we were poor, and we had no money to appeal to 
the law. No dealer would purchase anything that bore 
my name. As an artist^ I was ruined.” 

Here the dog Mitu, conscious that his mistress’ voice 
had rather a sad tone in it, limped across to her on his 
three legs, holding up his bandaged paw. She smiled and 
lifted him up in her arms. 

“Yes — we were ruined, Mitu!” she said, resting her 
pretty, rounded chin on his silky head. “Ruined as far as 
the world and the world’s applause went. But one can- 
not put a stop to thoughts — they will grow, like flowers, 
wherever there is any soil to give them root. And 
though I knew I could not sell my pictures, I continued 
to paint for my own pleasure ; and to keep my mother and 
myself alive I gave drawing-lessons to children. But we 
were poor — intolerably, squalidly poor — till one day Mr. 
Hoskins came.” 

“And then?” I inquired, eagerly. 

“Why, then — well!” and the fair Marchini laughed a 
little. “He made me a curious proposal. He said he was 
an American artist who desired to establish himself in 
Rome. He could only paint landscapes, he told me, and he 
knew he would require to have ‘figure-pictures’ in his 
studio to ‘draw.’ He said he would pay me handsomely 
to do these ‘figure-pictures’ if I would sell them to him 
outright, let him put his name to them, and ask no more 
about them. I hesitated at first, but my mother was very 
ill at the time, and I had no money. I was driven by 


19 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

necessity, and at last I consented. And Mr. Hoskins has 
kept his word about payment — he is very generous — and 
my mother and I are quite well off now. M 

“But he is asking fifteen thousand dollars for the 
‘Daphne/ ” I cried, “and he only gives you two thousand 
francs ! Do you call that generous ?” 

Giuletta Marchini looked thoughtful. 

“Well, I don’t know !” she said, sweetly, with a plain- 
tive uplifting of her eyebrows; “you see it costs him a 
great deal to live in Rome ; he enteftains numbers of peo- 
ple and has to keep a carriage. Now, it costs us very 
little to live as we do, and we have no friends at all. Two 
thousand francs is quite as large a sum to me as fifteen 
thousand dollars is to him.” 

“And you will never make any attempt to secure for 
yourself the personal fame you so well deserve?” I 
asked, in astonishment. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“I think not! What is the use of it — to a woman? 
Celebrity for our sex, as I said before, simply means — 
slander! A man may secure fame through the vilest 
and most illegitimate means ; he may steal other people’s 
brains to make his own career; he may bribe the critics; 
he may do anything and everything in his power, dis- 
honorably or otherwise — provided he succeeds he is never 
blamed. But let a woman become famous through the un- 
aided exertions of her own hand and brain, she is always 
suspected of having been ‘helped’ by somebody. No, I 
cannot say I care for fame. I painted my picture, or, 


20 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 


rather, Mr. Hoskins' picture” — and she smiled — “out of a 
strong feeling of sympathy with the legend. The god ap- 
proaches, and the woman is transformed from a creature 
of throbbing joys and hopes and passions into the laurel — 
a tree of bitter taste and scentless flower ! I am happier 
as I am — unknown to the world — while Hoskins ‘is an 
honorable man’ !” she finished, making the Shakesperian 
quotation with a bright laugh, as she dropped the curtain 
over the great canvas of “I Barberi,” the picture that had 
been the cause of so much sorrow in her life. 

After this adventure I visited Giuletta Marchini often, 
and tried to argue with her on the erroneous position she 
occupied. I pointed out to her that Nehemiah P. Hoskins 
was making out of her genius a fraudulent reputation for 
himself. But she assured me there were many struggling 
artists in Rome who made their living in the same way as 
she did — namely, by painting pictures for American “art- 
ists” who had no idea of painting for themselves. I dis- 
cussed the matter with her mother, a dried-up little chip 
of an old woman, with black eyes that sparkled like jew- 
els, and I found her quite as incorrigible on the subject as 
Giuletta herself. 

“When a girl’s heart is broken, what can you do ?” she 
said, with eloquent gestures of her head and hands. 
“The Austrian devil is to blame — Max Wieland ; may all 
evil follow him! Giuletta loved him. I believe, if she 
would only confess it, she loves him now. Her character 
is not a changeful one. She is one of those women who 
would let her lover kill her and kiss the hand that dealt 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 21 

the blow. She has genius — oh, yes ! Genius is not rare 
in Italy. It is in the blood of the people, and we do not 
wonder at it. Things are best as they are.' She is not 
happy, perhaps, but she is at peace. She loves her work, 
and we are able to live. That is enough, and all we want 
in this world. And for Giuletta — a woman does not care 
for fame when she has lost love.” 

And from her I could get no other verdict. She had, 
however, a strong sense of humor, I found, and fully rec- 
ognized the art-fraud practised on his patrons by Nehe- 
miah P. Hoskins ; but she could not see that her daughter 
was either affected or injured by it. At Giuletta’s own 
earnest request I therefore refrained from any immediate 
interference with Nehemiah’s prosperity and growing rep- 
utation. He was quite the “lion” in Rome that year, and 
entertained whole embassies at tea. The “Daphne” was 
purchased at his own price by one of the wealthiest of his 
countrymen (a former “navvy,” who now keeps “secre- 
taries” and buys historical land in England), who has had 
it carefully “hung” in the most conspicuous part of his 
new picture-gallery, and who calls Hoskins “the American 
Raphael.” 

Meanwhile, at my suggestion, Giuletta Marchini is 
painting a work which she intends to submit to some of 
the best judges of art in Paris ; and, judging from its de- 
sign so far as it has proceeded, I think it is possible that 
in a couple of years Nehemiah P. Hoskins will be found 
to have “gone off” in a singular manner, while Giuletta 
Marchini will have “come up,” to be received, no doubt, 


22 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 


with the usual mixture of abuse and grudging praise 
awarded to work that is known to be woman’s, instead of 
the applause that frequently attends the inane productions 
of pretentious and fraudulent men. In truth, it would 
sometimes seem that it is better, as this world goes, to be 
a man and an impostor, than a woman and honest. And, 
concerning American artists in Rome, it is well known 
how many a one has there enjoyed a brief but dazzling 
reputation for “genius,” which has suddenly ended in 
“smoke” because the gifted Italian who has played 
“ghost” behind the scenes has died, or emigrated, or gone 
elsewhere to make a name for himself. This rapid and 
apparently mysterious failure has attended the career of 
one Max Wieland, upon whom the Viennese journals now 
and then comment in terms of reproach and disappoint- 
ment. His great picture, they say, of “I Barberi,” had led 
the world of art to expect works from him of the very 
highest order, but, strange to say, he has done nothing 
since worthy of remark or criticism. Giuletta knows this, 
but is silent on the subject, and, for herself, is certainly 
more alarmed than pleased at the prospect of winning her 
deserved fame. 

“To be censured and misunderstood,” she says, “is it 
pleasant — for a woman? To be pointed out as if one 
were a branded criminal, and regarded with jealousy, sus- 
picion and even hatred — is it worth fighting for? I my- 
self doubt it. Yet, if the laurel must grow from a human 
heart, I suppose it cannot but cause pain.” 

And even while she works steadily on at her new pic- 


2 ? 


Nehemiah P. Hoskins, Artist. 

ture, she tells me she is quite contented as she is, and 
happier than she thinks she is likely to be as an art 
“celebrity.” In the interim, Nehemiah P. Hoskins, the 
“American Raphael,” is triumphant; accepting homage 
for genius not his own, and pocketiqg cash for work he 
has not done ; while he is never so magnificently convinc- 
ing, so grandiloquently impressive, as when, surrounded 
by admiring male friends, he discourses complacently 
upon the “totally mistaken” vocation of “woman in art !” 


THE SILENCE OF THE MAHARAJAH. 


Out in India at a certain English station which was 
generally admitted to be socially “fast,” with that unique 
sort of fastness peculiar to Anglo-Indian life, the leader 
of the most “rapid” set was a handsome, dashing woman, 
known to the irreverent as “Lolly,” and to the more or- 
thodox as Mrs. Claude Annesley. She was the wife of 
Colonel Claude Annesley, of course, but this fact had to 
be strongly borne in upon the minds of those who were 
not thoroughly well acquainted with her, because at first 
sight she did not appear to be the wife of anybody. She 
gave you the impression of being a “free lance” among 
women, joyously insolent and independent ; and the bonds 
of matrimony seemed to press very lightly on her friv- 
olous butterfly soul. She was not what one would call 
positively young any longer, being a trifle over forty, but 
she was so slim and light on her feet, besides knowing 
exactly what kind of corsets would give her the most 
perfectly pliant and svelte figure, that she was generously 
allowed by her men friends (though not by her woman 
rivals) to pass for being still in the early thirties. She 
went in thoroughly, too, for all the newest methods of 
“skin treatment,” and succeeded in preserving a fresh 
and even brilliant natural complexion, despite the heats 


25 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 

of India. She was tall and brown-haired, with dark eyes, 
which had a sparkle of the devil’s own mischief in them ; 
she had very white, even teeth, and could smile bewitch- 
ingly. 

Her husband was younger than herself — some said four 
or five years younger — though at times he looked ten 
years older. He was a big, gaunt, grave-featured man, 
with a turn for philosophy. He would sit silently smok- 
ing for hours, meditating inwardly and looking very old ; 
but if a friendly comrade came in and disturbed his soli- 
tude with some senseless yet well-meaning remark about 
the weather or the government, he would spring up to 
give a hearty return greeting; his eyes, which were a, 
clear blue, would flash with pleasure, and in a moment he 
became young — quite young, with an almost boyish 
youngness which was amazing. It was on these occa- 
sions that people called him handsome, and murmured 
among themselves sotto-voce , “I wonder why he married 
Lolly ?” 

And somehow it did seem a singular thing, till one fine 
day somebody discovered the reason of it. It was very 
simple, and not at all uncommon. “Lolly” had money; 
Colonel Annesley had none, or what was as bad as none. 
“Lolly” entertained largely, and gave expensive luncheons 
and garden parties ; her husband was little more than an 
invited guest at these. He did not pay for them — he 
could not pay; and though he was supposed to do the 
honors, he fulfilled this duty with so timid and hesitating 
a demeanor that Mrs. Annesley would generally send 


2 6 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

him away to smoke by himself, saying, with a perfectly 
unruffled brow and good-natured laugh, “Really, Claude, 
you have no tact!” And certainly he did appear to be 
deficient in this social quality. It was impossible to the 
gaunt, young-old colonel to feign things — to pretend he 
was rich when he knew he was poor ; to assume the airs 
of manly and easy independence when his wife had all the 
sinews of war and reins of government and expenditure 
in her hands, and seldom lost an opportunity of reminding 
him of the fact. Of course he had his pay, but that he 
scrupulously set aside for his own clothes, tobacco and 
extras. A good deal of it went, by the by, in his annual 
birthday present to his wife. He was at heart a good 
fellow, yet somehow, as soon as people found out that 
his wife had all the money and he had none, he got gen- 
erally misunderstood. Sentimental young ladies ex- 
claimed, “What a horrid man! — to marry for money!” 
Mothers who had dowerless daughters to; wed experi- 
enced a violent revulsion of feeling against him, and ob- 
served, “Dear me! Fancy if all men were as selfish as 
Colonel Annesley!” His own sex, however, thought 
more leniently of him. Impecunious officers judged him 
by themselves, and said, feelingly, “He’s not to be blamed 
for looking after the main chance. And Lolly must be a 
trial, even taking the cash in.” 

Nevertheless they were obliged to own that “Lolly” 
was not without her charm. She was extremely good- 
tempered, an excellent hostess, a clever match-maker, a 
sprightly talker, and a generally accomplished society 


27 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 

woman all round. So that everybody was not a little 
interested and excited when it was known that Mrs. 
Claude Annesley had made up her mind to entertain for 
three or four days in the grandest style the Maharajah of 
the neighboring province, a prince noted for his wealth 
and the enormous quantity of his jewels. He was young, 
and had received a first-class English college education, 
and, according to report, was a very superior type of na- 
tive potentate, being something of a poet in his own 
fanciful way of Eastern symbolism, and having, further- 
more, distinguished himself by the publication of a bril- 
liantly written treatise in Hindustani on the most recent 
discoveries in astronomy. Wherefore Mrs. Annesley de- 
termined to “lionize” him. She did not consult the 
Colonel on the subject at all ; his opinion would have been 
worth nothing. She believed somewhat in the creed of 
the “new” woman, which declares men generally to be 
either brutes or fools. She did not include her husband 
in the former class; he was too gentlemanly and inof- 
fensive ; but she silently and without open incivility placed 
him among the latter. Consequently, in her proposed in- 
tention to “make capital” out of the entertainment of a 
be jeweled Maharajah, he — “poor Claude,” as she called 
him — was not admitted into the discussion of ways and 
means. He was only the ornamental dummy or figure- 
head of the establishment The house, the biggest resi- 
dence in the whole place, and almost palatial, was hers; 
the money was hers. He had nothing to do with it ; he 
was merely her husband. Therefore, when he met people 


28 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

who said, “So the Maharajah is coming to stay with 
you?” he answered, absently, “I believe so,” without be- 
ing at all certain on the point. He thought about it now 
and then while smoking his own tobacco, tobacco which 
he found particularly soothing because he had paid for 
it himself, and did not owe it to his wife’s purse. And 
he was not at all sure that he liked the idea of the 
Maharajah’s visit. He did not take kindly to native 
princes. He had all the prejudices of the pugnacious 
Briton “born for precedence,” and had no love for that 
type of human being known to some poets as the “dusky, 
dark-eyed Oriental.” Dusky and dark-eyed the Oriental 
might be, but he was also likely to be dirty. And “poor 
Claude,” though apparently* vague on other matters, had 
particularly strong ideas on the subject of frequent “tub- 
bing.” It was to this, perhaps, that he owed his rather 
fine, clear skin, under which the blood flowed with such 
easy freedom that he was frequently accused of blushing. 
The least emotion or excitement of a pleasurable nature 
brought a ruddy tint to his cheeks, and gave them that 
“glow of health” for which certain beauties pay so much 
per box or bottle at the perfumer’s. He blushed now at 
the possibility of having an untubbed Maharajah in the 
house. 

“However,” he murmured, “he’s had an English edu- 
cation, and she will have her way” — the “she” referring 
to his wife, lady and ruler — “I like a quiet life, and it’s 
best not to interfere. She’s got a perfect right to do as 
she likes with her own money.” 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 29 

And he resigned himself as usual to the inevitable. 
For there was no doubt that the Maharajah was coming. 
He had accepted the invitation given him, and he was 
known to be a man of his word. His treatise on astron- 
omy had proved him to be that. He had said he would 
write that treatise, and nobody believed him, not even his 
college tutors. “He's too lazy,” one Englishman re- 
marked of him, the said Englishman having been four 
years at work on the writing of an extremely feeble novel, 
which he had sent to London to get published, and which 
no publisher would accept; “he'll never write anything. 
I know these native fellows !”' But, despite this prophecy, 
he had done it, and done it so well that it was the subject 
of interested and admiring comment among scientific peo- 
ple generally. And this very treatise on modern astron- 
omy was one of the reasons why Mrs. Annesley wanted 
to lionize him. But it was not the chief reason — not by 
any means. The chief reason was perfectly human and 
particularly feminine; it was that Mrs. Claude Annesley 
wished to impress everybody in the place with a sense of 
her wealth, her importance, her influence, her position 
generally. And she had chosen this special time to do it 
because — well, the “because” involves a little explanation, 
which runs as follows : 

Long ago, and long before handsome Laura Egerton, 
now Mrs. Claude Annesley, had married Colonel Claude 
Annesley, while she was yet the dashing belle of the 
London “season,” she had contracted what was for her a 
curiously sentimental friendship with a girl several years 


)o The Silence of the Maharajah. 

younger than herself — a pale, slim, tiny, golden-haired 
creature with great plaintive grey eyes set in her small 
face like stars too big for the position in which they 
found themselves. This elf-like being exercised a pe- 
culiar fascination over the sprightly “Lolly,” partly on 
account of her ethereal looks, which caused her to be 
sometimes called La Belle Dame sans Merci, after Keats’ 
heart-throbbing poem, partly because she was so un- 
worldly and childlike, and partly because she had such 
naive and fantastic notions concerning men. She was 
named Idreana, which had the advantage of being an un- 
usual name and fascinating in its long-drawn vowel 
sound. 

Idreana used to say, in her soft, thrilling voice, that a 
man, according to the notion she had formed of the one 
she could “love, honor and obey,” must be a hero, morally 
and physically; that she pictured him as brave and ten- 
der, chivalrous and true. A grand, great creature, whom 
to look upon was to honor, revere and adore! To lose 
one’s very identity in an absorbing passion for such an 
one, to sacrifice everything for so worthy a master and 
lord, would be the happiest, proudest, most glorious fate 
imaginable for any woman! So she would speak, this 
fairy-like feminine bundle of nerves and sentiment, her 
whole little frame a-quiver with enthusiasm. And “Lol- 
ly,” then in the thick of motley “society,” would listen, 
vaguely entranced, compassionately amused, wholly as- 
tonished, wondering within herself as to what would be- 
come of this self-deluding, imaginative, small maiden 


3i 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 

when she came to know the world — when Fashion and 
Frivolity burst in like drunken clowns upon the holy quiet 
of her girlish fancies, and with blatant laughter and 
lascivious jest tore down the rose-colored veil she had 
woven about herself, and forced her to look on social life 
as it is, and on men as they are. “Lolly” did not suffer 
from sentiment, as a rule ; and the only really violent at- 
tack of that malady she ever had was during her inti- 
macy with this weird little Idreana. 

And now Idreana was married — had been married three 
years or more, to a Captain Le Marchant, whose regiment 
was also stationed in India, but at a rather dismal place, 
a good way distant from the “happy valley” where Mrs. 
Claude Annesley held her social court ; and thus it had 
happened that the two ladies, since their respective mar- 
riages, had never met. But they were going to meet 
now. Mrs. Annesley had invited Captain and Mrs. Le 
Marchant to stay with her, and after some little delay the 
Captain had obtained a month’s leave of absence, and the 
invitation was accepted. It was after this acceptance of 
the Le Marchants that Mrs. Annesley had bethought her- 
self of entertaining the Maharajah. “It will astonish the 
Le Marchants,” was her first thought. “It will please 
Idreana’s picturesque turn of mind,” was her second. 
Perhaps, if her motive had been proved down to its 
farthest root, it would have been found to be nothing 
more nor less than a desire to “show off” before a friend 
of her unmarried days, and prove that her position as 
a wife was unexceptionable. She knew that la belle dame 


32 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

sans merci had made a poor match, financially considered, 
and she had heard (only through friendly rumor, of 
course) that Captain Le Marchant, though a “fine man,” 
had contracted rather a disagreeable habit — that of get- 
ting drunk on occasions. But she could not quite believe 
this. “If it were so, Idreana, with her fastidious notions 
about men, would never have married him,” she thought. 
Yet she admitted within herself that it was quite possible 
Idreana, like other women “with fastidious notions,” 
might have been deceived. 

It was with a certain amount of curiosity and excite- 
ment, therefore, that Mrs. Claude Annesley prepared to 
receive the Le Marchants on the afternoon of their ar- 
rival. They came a few days before the date fixed for 
the visit of the Maharajah, and it is due to Mrs. Claude 
Annesley’s sense of old friendship and hospitality to 
observe that she was much more particular over the com- 
fortable arrangements of the rooms set apart for Idreana 
and Idreana’s husband than she was for the adornment 
of those palatial apartments, the best in her large luxuri- 
ous residence, which were destined to receive the Maha- 
rajah. She was genuinely eager to see her little friend of 
former days again, and wondered if marriage had altered 
her — if she had lost that singularly sylph-like, belle-dame - 
sans-merci expression that had once marked her out 
from ordinary young women. 

“ ‘Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild!’ ” 

hummed Mrs. Annesley, softly, as she moved from room 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 33 

to room, setting flowers here, a mirror there, and giving 
to everything that final touch which is essentially femi- 
nine, and which imparts even to lifeless furniture a sen- 
tient, confidential, and welcoming air. “What will she 
think of us all, I wonder?” “Us all” included herself 
and a very large number of officers and civilians, married 
and unmarried — “the boys,” as she called them. The 
wives of the married ones did not come into the category, 
neither was Colonel Annesley counted among “the 
boys.” . In fact, he was not to be discovered in any par- 
ticular social roll-call. He was not exactly a “boy ;” and 
as he was in a manner dependent on his wife, he was not 
exactly a man. This is socially speaking. In his regi- 
ment he was thought a good deal of. But as this story 
has nothing to do with his regiment, and does not in the 
least concern his military career, there is no occasion to 
enlarge on the ideas of the regiment concerning him. 
They were old-fashioned ideas, very blunt and common- 
place, and did not take in Mrs. Annesley at all as part of 
the colonel’s existence. They are very well known, and 
have been duly chronicled. 

“What will she think of us all ?” repeated Mrs. Annes- 
ley with a smile and an approving glance at her well- 
dressed figure as she passed a convenient mirror. “She 
was always such a quixotic little thing. I am curious to 
see what sort of a husband she has chosen.” 

Her curiosity was almost immediately gratified, for as 
she entered her drawing-room, after a final survey of the 
apartments prepared for her visitors, Captain and Mrs. 


34 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

Le Marchant, with their servants, their bag and baggage, 
duly arrived, and were straightway announced. 

“My dear Idreana!’ cried Mrs. Annesley, stepping 
quickly to embrace the small, slight figure of the woman 
now entering the doorway, “What an age it is since we 
met!” Then again, “My dear Idreana!” 

The small woman smiled — a rather grave and doubtful 
smile. 

“It is pleasant to see you again, Laura,” she said, in a 
low voice. Then with a touch of something like appeal 
in her tone, “Let me introduce — my husband.” 

A tall, heavily-made man, thickly mustached, with 
fine eyes and a somewhat flushed face, bowed. 

“Charmed to meet you!” he drawled. “Old friend of 
my wife’s — delightful. Awfully good of you to put us 



“Oh, the pleasure is mine, I asure you!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Annesley, eagerly, anxious to put an end to' the tem- 
porary embarrassment of introduction, and nervously 
conscious that she had taken an instant dislike to Cap- 
tain Le Marchant. “I cannot tell you how delighted I 
am to see dear Idreana again. And as sweet as ever! 
Positively, my dear, you look a mere child still ; no one 
would ever take you for a married woman. Do sit down 
and have some tea before you go to your rooms. Claude ! 
Claude!” 

Colonel Annesley, part of whose marital duty it was 
to be always within call on the arrival of visitors, entered 
from the veranda. 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 35 

“This is my husband,” said Mrs. Annesley with a sud- 
den glow of unaccustomed pride as she noticed that 
“poor Claude” did really look singularly distinguished as 
contrasted with Le Marchant — “Colonel Annesley, Cap- 
tain Le Marchant; and this, Claude, is Mrs. Le Mar- 
chant, my dear little friend of old days at home, Idreana.” 

Colonel Annesley bowed, not without a certain grace. 
In one keen glance he had taken in the characteristics of 
the married pair. 

“The man is of the ‘fine brute’ bull-throated type,” he 
said inwardly, “and his wife — poor little sweet soul !” 

These were his only mental comments ; he was accus- 
tomed to disguise his feelings. He sat down by Mrs. Le 
Marchant and began talking to her, now and then ask- 
ing her husband the particulars of their journey and 
other trifles, in order to 1 bring him into the conversation. 
For once Mrs. Annesley felt grateful to “poor Claude.” 
He was making things easy — things that she would some- 
how have found difficult. For not only did she not like 
the look of Captain Le Marchant, but she was painfully 
impressed by the expression in Mrs. Le Marchant’s face. 
Idreana was still wonderful to look at with her cloud of 
gold hair and small delicate face — she was still the very 
ideal of the belle dame sans merci, but she was a belle 
dame who had been mysteriously insulted and outraged. 
A silent tragedy was written in her large deep eyes; a 
hint of it was set in the proud curve of her upper lip; 
traces of it were discernable in one or two lines about 
her mouth and forehead. She was choicely though sim- 


3 6 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

ply attired. She listened to Colonel Annesley’s conver- 
sation attentively, and answered his various questions 
with that gentleness and grace which mark perfect breed- 
ing; and then, tea being finished, she accompanied Mrs. 
Annesley to her room, leaving her husband to smoke 
with his host in the veranda. Once alone together, the 
two women looked each other steadily in the face. Then 
Mrs. Annesley spoke out impulsively. 

“Idreana, you are not happy?” 

“I'm sorry my condition is so evident,” said Idreana 
with a pale smile, setting aside her hat and cloak. “Cer- 
tainly, I am not happy. But it doesn’t matter.” 

“Doesn’t matter?” 

“No! Why should it? People are not meant to be 
happy in this world.” She sat down, and clasping her 
hands in her lap looked up seriously. “Dreams fade, 
delusions die — life is never what it seems to promise. 
This is everybody’s story; it is mine. I do not com- 
plain.” 

“But you married for love, Idreana ?” 

“Certainly I did,” she answered. “You put it exactly 
— for love. I wanted love — I longed for it, as they say 
the saints long for God. One hears and reads so much 
about love in one’s youth, you know, one actually be- 
lieves in it. I believe in it. It was foolish of me to 
fasten my faith on a mere rumor. Did you marry for 
love, too?” 

A faint flush tinted Mrs. Annesley’s well-preserved 

skin. 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 37 

“No, dear,” she admitted, frankly. “I married — well, 
because it was time I married. I was getting what they 
call pcissee. I wanted a sober and respectable husband. 
And Colonel Annesley is that.” 

“Ah!” and Idreana’s straight brows contracted. 
“Well, Captain Le Marchant is not that.” 

Mrs. Annesley started. The report she had heard, the 
friendly report, was true, then. 

“My dear, I am sorry,” she began stammeringly. 

“Don't be sorry,” said Idreana, rising and beginning 
to arrange her hair in front of the mirror. “And don’t 
let us talk about it. You know what fancies I used to 
have? Well, they are dead and done for. I have buried 
them all, and — sometimes — I brood a little over the 
grave. But you were always sensible. You never had any 
delusions to bury, and my griefs, such as they are, have 
chiefly arisen from my own wilful ignorance of things. 
I understand life now, and am quite prepared to live it 
out without undue grumbling at the inevitable.” 

She raised a mass of her bright hair and settled it in 
its place. Mrs. Annesley looked at her wonderingly, and 
the former romantic fascination this slight creature used 
to exercise over her own matter-of-fact disposition re- 
turned. 

“How pretty you are, Idreana!” she said with un- 
grudging admiration. “How very pretty! Whatever 
you have suffered, your looks are not spoiled.” 

“I ^_m glad of that,” returned Mrs. Le Marchant with 
a little laugh in which there was a ring of bitterness. 


)8 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

“No woman likes to grow ugly — the sense of ugliness 
almost makes one lose one's self-respect. But, my dear 
Laura*’ — here her voice softened — “you always thought 
too much of me. You were a beauty in your girlhood — 
I never was.” 

“No, you were never a beauty,” returned Mrs. Annes- 
ley musingly, “but you were what you are still — an in- 
describable being. And, do you know, I don’t think men 
get on with indescribable beings. Antony liked Cleo- 
patra, and she was indescribable; but then the modern 
man is never a Marc Antony, though I believe there are 
plenty of Cleopatras among modern women. You are a 
sort of enigma, you know ; you can’t help it — you were 
made like that, and men are always silly at guessing 
enigmas.” 

Idreana smiled rather sadly. “I think you mistake me, 
dear,” she said gently . “I am not an enigma. I am only 
a weak, loving womaii whose best emotions have been 
killed like leaves in a frost. There never was any mys- 
tery about my nature, and if there seems to you any mys- 
tery now, it is only because I try to shut within myself 
the secret of my life’s disappointment and sorrow. If my 
heart is broken, the world need not know it. And you 
will help me, will you not?” she added with a certain 
tremulous eagerness. “You will not let any one guess 

my husband’s ” here she paused and sought for a 

word, and finally said, “my husband’s failing. One must 
always keep up appearances, and there is no occasion to 
make an exhibition of one’s domestic griefs for the bene- 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 39 

fit of unsympathetic society. While we are here, you, as 
hostess, can do so much for me ; in your hospitality you 
will not, I am sure, encourage Captain Le Marchant in 
his habit ” 

She broke off, and her self-command gave way a little. 
Mrs. Annesley saw the tears in her eyes, and her own 
throat contracted unpleasantly. 

“Of course not, my dear,” she said hastily. “But — I 
must tell Claude. Otherwise, you see, he will keep on 
passing the wine and other things. He is very good- 
natured, and he has an idea that every decent man knows 
when he has had enough ” Here she paused, re- 

membering that “poor Claude” himself was one of these 
decent men. “He is really an awfully good fellow,” she 
thought, with a most curious and quite novel touch of 
remorse. “Now I come to consider it, he has been the 
most perfect of husbands!” Aloud, she went on, “You 
agree with me, don’t you, Idreana, that it will be best 
just to mention it to Claude?” 

Mrs. Le Marchant’s large pathetic eyes appeared to be 
looking dreamily into futurity. 

“Yes, it will be best,” she answered at last. “Besides, 
your husband is a good man, and naturally you can have 
no' secrets from him.” 

Mrs. Annesley winced a little and flushed. Things 
were not exactly as Idreana put them. But never mind ! 
Idreana was always fanciful. She was silent, and pres- 
ently Mrs. Le Marchant spoke again. 


40 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

“One thing I have not told you,” she said. “I had a 
child.” 

“You had, Idreana!” and Mrs. Annesley gazed at her 
with a lurking envy in her soul, for in this respect the 
Fates had not been good to her. “When ?” 

“Oh ! nearly two years ago.” And the delicate face of 
the belle dame sans merci grew paler and more wistful. 
“It was a pretty little creature, and I always imagine it 
loved me, though it was so young. It died when it was 
three months old.” 

“My poor darling,” exclaimed Mrs. Annesley, slipping 
an arm round the younger woman’s waist. “What a trial 
for you ! What a grief !” 

“No, it was a gladness,” said Idreana quietly. “I have 
thanked God many a time for my baby’s death. If it had 
lived” — she shuddered — “it might have grown up to be 
like its father!” 

The intense horror in her tone sent quite a disagree- 
able chill through her listener’s blood. This was dread- 
ful ! Idreana was dreadful ; the conversation was dread- 
ful ! It must be put a stop to. Mrs. Annesley’s emi- 
nently practical nature suddenly asserted itself. 

“My dear girl, for goodness sake don’t let us get on 
these melancholy subjects,” she said, briskly, the social 
“Lolly,” beginning to shine out of every feature of her 
still handsome face. “You mustn’t think about troubles 
while you are with me. You are here for a little change 
and gayety, and I intend that you shall enjoy yourself. 
We’ll manage Captain Le Marchant and you will have 


41 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 

no need to fret yourself. Just you put on a pretty gown 
now, and make yourself look as sweet as ever you can ; 
there are some nice fellows coming to dine to-night, and 
I want them to admire you. I shall have to run away 
myself now to change my dress. Will you be long?” 

“No,” answered Mrs. Ee Marchant gently, “I shall 
not be long.” 

Mrs. Annesley paused on the threshhold, with a bright 
look. “And, oh !” she said, “I forgot to tell you that we 
are going to have a wonderful native prince here on a 
visit — a really very delightful Maharajah, extremely well 
educated. He speaks English perfectly, and he wears — 
oh! my dear! such diamonds! We are going to hold 
some big receptions in his honor, and wind up with a 
ball. I am sure you will enjoy it all immensely.” 

She nodded and tripped off, meeting Captain Ee Mar- 
chant on the way. He was coming up to his room to 
dress for dinner, under the escort of Colonel Annesley. 

“Claude,” she said in her sweetest voice, “when you 
have shown Captain Ee Marchant his room, will you 
come to me? I want to speak to you.” 

The colonel returned assent, and presently came into 
the drawing-room, where he found his wife waiting him. 

“Claude,” she began, hesitatingly, “it’s a dreadful thing 
to have to say, but I’m obliged to tell you Captain Ee 
Marchant drinks!” 

“He looks it,” responded the colonel briefly, and then 
stood “at attention” ready for further revelations. 


42 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

“Oh, Claude,” exclaimed “Lolly” irrelevantly, “I have 
never seen you drunk !” 

Colonel Annesley stared. 

“Of course not! What’s that got to do 1 with it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” And Mrs. Annesley looked up, 
and then down nervously, and finally assuming her most 
impressive and wife-like manner she added, “I’m only so 
glad and proud, Claude, that I never have !” 

The tall colonel blushed and looked extremely young. 
A stranger observing him would have said he was evi- 
dently ashamed of himself. Perhaps he was. He said 
nothing, however, and only smiled dreamily. 

“Claude,” went on Mrs. Annesley, “you must try and 
keep this man sober — you must, really! Fancy if he 
were to make a scene with Idreana, before people, and 
here !” 

“Does he make scenes with her?” inquired the colonel. 

“Well, she hasn’t actually said so much, but I imagine 
he does. Anyway, keep the wine and spirits out of his 
reach, because, you see, if he never knows when to 



“Beast!” muttered the colonel under his breath. 

His wife looked at him almost humbly. “Yes, he 
must be,” she agreed. “Poor little Idreana !” 

The colonel did not echo this sentiment. He was play- 
ing with a small bullet that was set as a charm on his 
watch-chain (a bullet that had a history) and appeared 
stolidly unmoved.^ 

“You understand, Claude, don’t you?” went on his 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 43 

wife. “You are the host, and you mustn’t be the one to 
set temptation in his way. Don’t let him have the chance 
to disgrace himself.” 

The colonel looked perplexed. “I’ll do my best,” he 
said curtly, and turned on his heel to leave the room. 

“Claude !” called his wife softly. 

He came back obediently. 

“You havent got a flower in your coat for dinner,” she 
said with a trembling little laugh. “Let me give you 
one. 

She took a small sweet-scented blossom from a vase 
and fastened it in his button-hole. Under his clear skin 
the blood swiftly reddened and rose to the very roots of 
his close-cropped brown hair. He was blushing again 
apparently, and again he looked extraordinarily young. 
A novel and peculiar sense of being petted and made 
much of was on him, but he was quite silent. He was 
too much astonished to speak. 

“There !” said Mrs. Annesley, with a coquettish look of 
triumph as she finished decorating him. “Now you do 
me credit!” 

Surprise gave him a little catch in his throat. He 
coughed nervously. 

“Do I?” he managed to say at last. “I — er — thank 
you !” And out he went in a whirl of amazement. She 
meanwhile laughed and scolded herself for indulging in a 
sort of side flirtation with her own husband. 

“Poor Claude !” she murmured, repeating that favorite 


44 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

phrase which had now become almost hackneyed. “But 
he really is a gentleman.” 

The dinner that night went off successfully. Captain 
Le Marchant made himself most agreeable, and managed 
to impress everybody more or less with the idea that he 
was really a “charming” man. Even Mrs. Annesley de- 
cided that he was “not so bad after all,” and that perhaps 
Idreana, always imaginative, had unconsciously exag- 
gerated his “failing.” The colonel sat listening to him, 
like a good host, with polite and apparently absorbed 
attention. The gentlemen who added the intellectual 
grace and splendor of their presence to the table were 
chiefly young subalterns, open admirers and followers of 
Mrs. Annesley, who alternately flattered them, laughed 
at them, mocked them, neglected them, and drove them 
to despair, just as her humor suited her; and on this 
particular occasion these “boys” were rendered rather 
awkward and bashful by the fairy-like loveliness of Mrs. 
Le Marchant. 

Idreana, dressed in pure white, with her gold hair 
knotted in a Greek twist, and her tragic-sweet eyes, was 
a wonderful sight to see. She said so little, she looked so 
much. She was only a small woman, but to the dazzled 
subalterns she was “immense !” They found her, as Mrs. 
Annesley had said, “indescribable,” and did not quite 
know what to make of her. Her husband himself seemed 
to stand just a little in awe of her. What Colonel An- 
nesley thought concerning her was not new. His first 
comment, “Poor little sweet soul !” still held good as the 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 45 

sum and substance of his opinion. It was a relief to the 
whole party to talk of the coming Maharajah. What he 
would do, and what they would do, formed a perpetually 
interesting topic of conversation. The “boys” com- 
mented silently on the fact that neither Colonel nor Mrs. 
Annesley seemed very lavish of wines at dinner, and that 
the “drink” generally was dispensed with a somewhat 
stingy care. But they were charitable “boys” and con- 
cluded that “Lolly” had run out of supplies and was lay- 
ing in fresh stock. So that the evening passed off pleas- 
antly without a hitch, and Captain Le Marchant showed 
no tendency whatever to fall into his “habit.” 

Some days now passed in pleasant tranquillity. Colonel 
Annesley, though he kept a constant watch on his guest 
with the “failing,” began himself to think that the case 
had been over-stated. Beyond a more or less settled 
gloominess of disposition, Captain Le Marchant was very 
much like any other ordinary army man. He was not 
clever, and in conversation he was occasionally coarse, 
but on the whole he maintained a decent and well-bred 
behavior. He was a magnificent athlete and a keen 
sportsman, and these attributes made him rather a popu- 
lar “man’s man.” Idreana began to look happier; a lit- 
tle of the tragedy went out of her eyes, leaving the light 
of hope there instead, whereat Mrs. Annesley rejoiced 
unselfishly. 

And at last the Maharajah arrived. In splendid garb 
he came, and showed himself to be a somewhat remarka- 
ble specimen of an Oriental. In the first place he was 


4 6 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

exceedingly handsome; secondly, he was exceptionally 
well-mannered. Courteous, yet not abating one jot of 
his dignity, he and a limited suite — limited in order not to 
put his hosts to too much trouble — took possession of 
that part of Mrs. Annesley’s house reserved and arranged 
for his special accommodation. All the particulars of his 
caste had been noted and remembered, and he showed 
his appreciation of this careful forethought and consid- 
eration by proving himself to be what rumor had already 
described him, a brilliant and gifted man, whose conver- 
sational capacities were not to be despised. From the 
first hour of his arrival, he had fastened his glowing 
dark eyes on the fair and spirituelle beauty of Mrs. Le 
Marchant, and had, in the briefest possible space of time, 
fallen secretly a victim to her unconsciously exerted 
charm. For her he strove to appear at his best; to in- 
terest her he spoke of the long vigils which he was wont 
to pass on the flower-gardened flat roof of his palace, his 
great telescope set up and pointed at the stars ; to her he 
told strange legends of the East, myths and fantasies of 
India’s oldest period ; to see her large eyes sparkle and 
her sweet lips part in breathless attention he related hair- 
breadth escapes from the jaws of wild beasts, and. won- 
derful adventures in forest or jungle. 

And the other visitors would listen to him entranced, 
fascinated not only by his attractive personality, but also 
by the priceless jewels that flashed on his breast, dia- 
monds cle&r as drops of dew, and opals shining with the 
mystic evanescent light of frozen foam. He had about 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 47 

him a certain air of sovereignty which became him well, 
and which kept the fashionable vulgarity of the “fast” 
set in check. He was by turns elegant, wise, witty and 
humorous, and distinctly proved to a few of the frivolous 
and empty-headed that there is no necessity to cultivate 
‘“chaff” or learn stable slang in order to be considered 
clever. He was a curious lesson in good-breeding to 
some of the English, this Maharajah ; and one or two of 
the more thoughtful mused unpleasantly on what might 
happen in India if “college education” turned out goodly 
numbers of “natives” such as he. His visit to the sta- 
tion, however, was an undoubted success ; nothing else 
was talked of in the whole place, and Mrs. Claude An- 
nesley had “scored” again, and added another to her 
long list of social triumphs. 

Meanwhile, if the truth must be told, the Maharajah 
himself was undergoing the tortures of the damned. His 
beautiful manners were with difficulty maintained, his 
polished grace, his fluent talk, his easy urbanity and ap- 
parent calm covered a passion of rage as fierce as that of 
any famished tiger. For the belle dame sans merci had 
him in thrall. The strange and subtle languor that lurked 
in her large, pathetic eyes, her delicate and elfin beauty, 
had run like a swift poison through his Eastern blood 
and set it on fire. Of what avail? None, he knew; she 
was as absolutely denied to him as the stars he studied in 
the hot summer midnights. Nevertheless, he loved her; 
-loved her with a fury and despair that nearly drove him 
frantic. To approach her made him tremble; the won- 


48 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

dering, unconscious, half- wistful looks she gave him made 
his heart beat to a sense of tears and suffocation. Once, 
when she by chance dropped a few flowers from her 
bosom, and he snatched them up stealthily, his act unseen, 
he thought he must have gone mad with the joy of kissing 
them. Yet, with all this fever at work within him, he 
kept his secret ; no hint of it ever escaped him by so much 
as an unguarded look or tremor of the voice, for he was 
brave. He had received his death-blow, so he said within 
himself, but none should see the wound. And he played 
his part as a manly man should, living his agony down 
hour by hour heroically, till the last day of his sojourn 
came, the day fixed by Mrs. Annesley for her grand ball. 

This entertainment was to be the climax of the fes- 
tivities, and was to outdo everything in the way of balls 
that had ever been given in the neighborhood. A splen- 
did pavilion was erected for dancing, the decorations were 
magnificent, everything was as complete as it could be, 
and Mrs. Annesley herself was satisfied. Mrs. Annesley, 
indeed, was in a state of devout thankfulness generally — 
she was even thankful for her husband. She felt in- 
stinctively sure that it was owing to his apparently un- 
observant observation that Captain Le Marchant had had 
no lapse into his “habit” and had always passed muster 
as a gentleman and officer worthy of serving the Queen. 

On the evening of the ball and just before it, a grand 
dinner party was arranged to take place, at which the 
Maharajah was not present. From the half-open door 
of his apartment he saw Idreana descend the stairs. 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 49 

dressed for both dinner and ball, and as he beheld her, 
himself unseen, his heart sank like an aching weight 
within him. What was code or caste or anything in the 
world compared to the desire of possessing this ethereal 
small woman, clad in her floating white draperies, her 
gold hair knotted loosely on her neck, and a strange scar- 
let flower at her bosom ! He peered after her, she all un- 
conscious of his anguished gaze, then, withdrawing softly, 
he closed the door, and covered his eyes with his hand, 
ashamed of the great tears that forced their burning way 
through his lashes. “The difference of race, the differ- 
ence of creed, the difference of law,” he muttered. “These 
part man and woman more than God and Nature would 
ever part them !” 

That night, when some twenty or more people sat down 
to dine at Mrs. Claude Annesley’s well-spread table, 
there could naturally be no stint of wine. The Colonel 
kept a vigilant eye on Captain Le Marchant, and judged 
,him to be drinking moderately, and keeping well within 
bounds. Before dessert was over the ladies adjourned to 
the ball-pavilion, and Mrs. Annesley insisted on her hus- 
band accompanying them, in order to help her in receiv- 
ing the already arriving guests. The Maharajah, attired 
in a dazzling glitter of gold and gems, entered with his 
attendants, and took his seat in a gilded chair set on a 
canopied dais for his special honor and accommodation. 

The music struck up, and the dancing commenced. At 
the first sound of the band all the other lingerers at the 
dinner-table came in, Captain Le Marchant among them. 


50 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

Colonel Annesley, busy assisting his wife as well as he 
was able, glanced at him as he entered, decided that he 
was all right, and took no further notice of him. The 
Captain sauntered about aimlessly for a little, spoke to 
two or three people, and then left the ball-room again 
without his departure being noticed. Dancing was soon 
in full swing, and the tide of swift motion and merriment 
rose quickly to its height. The Maharajah, sitting en- 
throned apart, the flashing jewels he wore contrasting 
singularly with his dark and rather grave features, was 
entirely absorbed in watching Mrs. Le Marchant dancing. 
His ardent, sombre eyes followed her everywhere as she 
floated to and fro, round and round, light as thistle-down, 
with her different partners, the loose knot of glistening 
hair shining at the back of her white neck, the scarlet 
flower like a flame on her white bosom. 

And as she danced on, he presently descended from the 
dais, and stood at the side of the pavilion in order to ob- 
serve her more closely, and also in the hope that haply 

4 

her white gown might touch him in its silvery whirl, for 
he felt he could not bear to lose even that possible chance 
of contact with her. And by and by he saw a young sub- 
altern approach her rapidly and say something to her in 
a low tone. She turned very pale, and her eyes seemed 
to close, then rousing herself, she smiled faintly, mur- 
mured some excuse to her partner and hurried away. Led 
by some instinct, and careless of what might be thought 
of his also absenting himself, the Maharajah followed. 
He had the stealthy step of a cat or a panther, and his 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 51 

tread behind her was unheard. She passed out of the 
ball pavilion, and along the flower-garlanded corridor 
which divided it from the house — the young subaltern 
was with her, and together they entered Mrs. Annesley’s 
dining-room. There, at the half-cleared dinner table, 
fallen forward in a sort of stupor, sat Captain Le Mar- 
chant, with one empty brandy bottle before him and an- 
other half begun. The Maharajah came to a standstill 
outside the door — he was still unheard and unperceived. 

Mrs. Le Marchant went up to the tumbled heap by the 
table, and put her little white-gloved hand on its shoulder. 

“Richard!” she said, in a trembling voice; “Richard, 
don’t stay here. Do come away, upstairs, anywhere.” 

She broke off, and the young sub., somewhat distressed, 
tried what he could do. He put his wholesome, strong 
young arm round the disgraceful bundle before him, and 
said, cheerily, “Hullo, captain! I say, get out of this, 
you know ! You mustn’t go to sleep here ; they want to 
lay the supper. Get up, there’s a good fellow !” 

The bundle stirred and raised itself. A red face showed 
above a crumpled dress-shirt ; two bloodshot eyes opened 
slowly, and the individual, understood to be an officer and 
a gentleman, made a vaguely threatening movement of 
his arms. 

“Richard!” murmured his wife again, earnestly, “do 
come up-stairs ; you are not well, you know. I can easily 
say you are not well if you will only come up-stairs and 
go to bed. Richard, do come !” 


52 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

He looked at her stupidly and laughed. She touched 
his arm entreatingly. 

“Richard !” she said, “don’t let the Annesleys see you 
like this !” 

With a sudden oath and a savage movement of his body, 
he clinched his big fist and struck straight out at his wife’s 
pleading face — a brutal, blow that stretched her on the 
ground senseless. In one second the Maharajah had 
sprung upon him and pinned him by the throat. Down 
on the floor he rolled him and knelt upon him, his long, 
brown, lithe fingers clutching at the thick bull-neck in 
such a masterly manner that the young subaltern, over- 
come with confusion and terror, rushed into the ball-room 
for the colonel and brought him forth in frantic haste, 
explaining in a few incoherent words the whole extraor- 
dinary situation. The colonel proved himself a man of 
action. Flinging himself upon the Maharajah, he dragged 
him away from the prostrate body of Le Marchant. 

“Don’t you see he’s drunk !” he exclaimed. “You can’t 
fight a man who is unable to defend himself. You are 
neither a coward nor a murderer; you must let him be.” 
Then, seeing Mrs. Le Marchant where she lay senseless, 
he addressed the pale-faced young subaltern : “Fetch 
Mrs. Annesley.” 

The Maharajah stood mute and breathless, with folded 
arms and flashing eyes. Captain Le Marchant was, with 
many unsavory oaths, endeavoring to pick himself up 
from the ground. The colonel surveyed the erect, proud 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 53 

figure of the Indian potentate with a look in which mili- 
tary resolve was blended with a good deal of respect. 

“Your Highness is my guest,” he said, calmly, “and I 
must apologize for laying hands roughly upon you. But 
you cannot quarrel with a drunkard; the thing is mani- 
festly impossible.” 

“He has killed his wife!” exclaimed the Maharajah, 
fiercely. 

“I think not ; but even if he has, that is not your High- 
ness’s affair. You have no right to defend an English 
lady from even the blows of her own lawful husband. 
Pardon me! You, like myself, are a subject of the Em- 
press ; these things are known to you without further ex- 
planation.” 

The Maharajah was silent and immovable for a mo- 
ment. Then, with a slight, haughty bow, he left the room. 
As he went he glanced back once, a world of pent-up 
agony and yearning in his eyes. Mrs. Annesley had hur- 
ried in, and was compassionately raising her friend 
Idreana from the floor, and all that he seemed to see in 
the air, as he made his way out, was a small, pale face 
and a scarlet flower. 

The affair soon got wind, and the ball that evening 
came to a hasty and rather disastrous conclusion. Idreana 
was carried to her room still unconscious; Captain Le 
Marchant was given an apartment on the other side of 
the house, where he could swear to his heart’s content 
and sleep off his brandy potations ; and when the morning 
broke it found them all more or less haggard and anxious. 


54 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

It was the day of the Maharajah’s departure, however, 
for which Colonel Annesley was secretly thankful, though 
“Lolly” was in despair that his visit should have had 
such an untoward termination. Captain Le Marchant 
woke up sober and furious. He had been attacked by an 
“Indian beast,” he said, and he would shake his “dirty 
life” out of him. He was still soliloquizing in this fashion 
when Colonel Annesley entered his room. 

“Captain Le Marchant, your wife is very ill.” 

Captain Le Marchant growled something unintelligible. 

“You conducted yourself disgracefully last night,” went 
on the colonel. “I am glad you do not belong to my regi- 
ment. As a soldier, I am ashamed of you; as a gentle- 
man, I find you insufferable. You — an English officer — 
to strike your wife! Good God! what a cowardly act! 
and what humiliation to us all to think that the Mahara- 
jah witnessed it! A nice impression to give him of our 
social civilization ! He nearly killed you, by the way ; it 
is fortunate I came in at the moment I did, otherwise he 
would have done so. He is leaving this morning, and he 
has asked me to tell you that he wishes to see you before 
his departure.” 

“I sha’n’t comply with his wish, then,” retorted Le 
Marchant ; “I’ll see him damned first !” 

“I’ll see you damned, if you don’t!” said the colonel, 
with sudden heat and vehemence. “If you refuse to go to 
him, it looks as if you were afraid of him, and by Jove, 
sir ! no British officer shall play the coward twice where 
I am!” 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 55 

Captain Le Marchant stared, then looked down, slight- 
ly disconcerted, and pulled his long mustache. 

“Very well,” he muttered, crossly. “Where is he?” 

“In his own rooms, and alone,” replied the colonel, 
meaningly. “I may as well tell you that he wishes to 
apologize.” 

“Oh!” and Le Marchant laughed. “That alters the 
case entirely. Rather funny to see him eating humble 
pie ! Fll go at once.” 

And out he sauntered, whistling carelessly. 

“Cad !” commented Colonel Annesley, under his breath. 
“That poor child Idreana and her ‘ideals !’ Now, Laura 
never had any ideals, she says, and that is how she man- 
aged to put up with me.” 

This idea served as a favorable theme for meditation, 
and he went to have a smoke and think it out. Mean- 
while Captain Le Marchant rapped at the door of the 
Maharajah’s apartment. 

A servant admitted him, and, without a word, ushered 
him into a small interior chamber, where at an open win- 
dow, looking out on a fair garden below, sat the Mahara- 
jah himself. Dismissing his attendant by a sign, he 
turned his head toward Le Marchant, in acknowledg- 
ment of his presence, but made no further salutation or 
movement to rise. And now, for the first time since his 
last night’s brandy debauch, the captain began to be 
ashamed of himself. Fidgety and embarrassed, he felt 
singularly unable to hold himself with any dignity, or dis- 
play the jaunty air of indifferent ease he desired to as- 


5 6 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

sume. He looked about for a chair to sit down on ; there 
was not one in the room save that on which the Mahara- 
jah was himself enthroned. And the composed sover- 
eignty of the Maharajah’s attitude, the terrible steadfast- 
ness of the Maharajah’s eyes, which regarded him with a 
look wherein hatred, contempt, reproach and wonder were 
all combined in one dark and piercing flash, began to be 
distinctly trying to the not over-steady nerves of this par- 
ticular officer and gentleman. He shifted awkwardly 
from one foot to the other, and studied the pattern of the 
floor, finding the atmosphere suddenly warmer than usual. 
Two minutes, perhaps, passed like this in uncomfortable 
stillness ; then the Maharajah spoke. 

“Captain Le Marchant,” he said, in low, but very clear 
accents, “I regret that I attacked you last night when you 
were unable to defend yourself. Men of my race and 
caste do not drink, hence we are not always able to 
realize the degradation of drunkenness in others. I un- 
derstand that I was wrong. I therefore apologize.” 

Captain Le Marchant moistened his dry lips and bowed 
stiffly. The Maharajah went on, still in the same even 
voice : 

“Do you demand further satisfaction, or do you accept 
this apology?” 

The captain raised his head and endeavored to look 
magnanimous, but only succeeded in looking foolish. He 
cleared his throat and twirled one end of his tawny mus- 
tache. 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 57 

“I accept it,” he said, and his voice was husky and un- 
certain. 

The Maharajah’s burning glance swept over him like 
lightning, and a faint, contemptuous smile rested on the 
proud mouth. 

“I wish you to comprehend me perfectly, Captain Le 
Marchant,” he went on. “If I could fight you, now that 
you are capable of fighting, hand to hand, man to man, I 
would do it ! I am ready for it at this moment ! It would 
give me the keenest joy!” His brown hands clenched, 
his chest heaved. Anon he resumed : “But I cannot. The 
lady whose cause I would defend, whose sorrows move 
me to indignation, is your wife ; you can do what you will 
with her — it is your law. I, at any rate, have no right to 
protect her!” 

A shuddering sigh broke from him. Le Marchant 
stared amazed. A new light dawned upon his mind — a 
sudden conviction that moved his coarse and flippant 
nature to a sense of malicious amusement. And now in 
his excitement the Maharajah rose, fiercely gripping with 
both hands the carved ivory arm-rests of his chair. 

“If I could buy your wife from you,” he said, his mel- 
low voice quivering with passion, “and save her from 
another such outrage upon her as that which I witnessed 
last night, I would give you half my possessions ! If I 
could steal her from you without shame to her or to me, 
I should be ‘uncivilized’ enough to do it ! Of course, you 
know what this means, and you can make scorn of me if 
you choose. I am powerless to prevent you. We are a 


58 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

conquered race, and you English despise us. I will not 
say that we do not merit your contempt. We have allowed 
ourselves to be kept down under the yoke of evil custom 
and barbarous superstition for countless ages, and we 
have never truly discovered our own intellectual force. 
Perhaps we shall discover it some day — who knows? 
Yours is a gallant nation, but men such as you disgrace it. 
You buy our Indian women, and neglect and ill-treat your 
own. This I cannot understand. But I waste words. I 
have made you an apology which you have accepted; so 
much being clear between us, I ask you one thing before 
we part forever — give me your word as a man that the 
scene of last night shall never be repeated ; that you will 
cherish your wife with the tenderness she merits, and 
never give her further cause to regret having married 
you. I have no right to appeal to you, I know, but for 
once forget this — forget the difference of race and creed 
between us, and, as man to man before the Eternal, give 
me your promise !” 

He spoke with eloquence and earnestness, and as he 
concluded stretched out his hands with a gesture of en- 
treaty. But Captain Le Marchant was now himself again. 
He realized the situation completely, and felt he was the 
master of it. He folded his arms and looked the Mahara- 
jah full in the face. 

“Your request is most extraordinary,” he said, coldly 
and with a haughty stare. “I can promise nothing of the 
kind — to you !” 

The Maharajah advanced a step toward him. 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 59 

“You are a Christian?” he demanded. 

Le Marchant bent his head in stiff assent. 

“I am often told that Christianity is the one true faith,” 
said the Maharajah, with impressive slowness, “the one 
pure creed. I also have a creed — not Christian. But in 
my creed there are oaths which bind. Is there nothing in 
yours which can bind you?” 

The captain smiled superciliously, and flicked a little 
dust off his coat. 

“Nothing!” he replied. 

With a stifled cry of indignation the Maharajah sud- 
denly drew a dagger from his belt. Poising it aloft, he 
made one tigerish spring forward ; then, as swiftly as he 
had advanced, he drew back, and flung the glittering 
weapon harmlessly on the ground. Pale and breathless, 
he fixed his glowing eyes full on the startled captain, 
who at sight of the lifted sharp steel had recoiled, and 
pointed imperiously to the door. 

“Go!” he said. 

And without another word, another look, Le Marchant 
went. 

Two hours later the Maharajah and his suite had de- 
parted, with many courteous farewells to Colonel and 
Mrs. Annesley, and profuse thanks for all the hospitality 
enjoyed. No special message of any sort was left by the 
Indian prince for Mrs. Le Marchant beyond a formally 
expressed regret at her continued indisposition. Nothing 
ambiguous was said or even hinted, and the “society” 
that circled round the brilliant “Lolly” was speedily left 


6o The Silence of the Maharajah. 


to itself to discuss the events of the past evening in the 
usual way that society does discuss things everywhere, 
propounding utterly erroneous suppositions and arriving 
at totally wrong conclusions. All the gossips, however, 
were unanimously correct in observing that “Colly” her- 
self was singularly silent and subdued, and that what was 
still more wonderful was that she appeared to have grown 
suddenly fond of her husband, the colonel. 

That same night, on the shining flat roof of his own 
palace, a roof which resembled a broad open terrace 
decked with creepers and flowers, after the style of the 
ancient Babylonian “hanging gardens/’ the Maharajah 
sat alone. Above him the dense blue of the sky arched 
itself like a dome, pierced through by the golden fire-ball 
of the Indian moon that sailed slowly along her course 
with a lazy, languid movement, suggesting voluptuous 
idleness and sleep. Close by him a great telescope was 
set up, man’s peephole of inquiry at worlds inscrutable; 
but he did not turn to consult this, the favorite compan- 
ion of his studies, as was his nightly habitude. He re- 
clined restfully in a low chair, the shield-shape back of 
which was carved curiously, and studded here and there 
with turquoise, on which now and again the moon rays 
flashed with a greenish-white glitter. His attitude was 
one of calm meditation; his eyes dreamily watched the 
solemn splendor of the midnight heavens. The diamond 
clasp of his turban scintillated in the moonlight like a 
stray star fallen out of the clear ether, and the priceless 
ruby, set as a ring on his right hand, glowed warmly with 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 61 

the hue of blood. He was thinking deeply, and his 
thoughts were of love, thoughts widely different from 
those of most men on the same subject. 

“Let me not hide this thing from myself,” he said, 
half aloud. “It is a sin and it is a glory. It is a sin to 
love her whom I may not love if I live on to bear that 
guilty living love toward her, but it is a glory to love if I 
die, and with myself kill all my erring passion. He — her 
husband — has guessed, and will most surely tell her of 
my folly. I saw that in his cruel face. She in her gentle 
nature will be grieved and pained, perchance she may be 
offended, and rightly, to think that I should dare to love 
her and live on. With this fever in my soul, this desire 
in my blood, my very life insults her. Dead, she will 
think kindly of me, if she thinks at all. Moreover, love 
is life; without love life is death. What we shall there- 
fore do now, my soul, is to leave this world; we shall 
learn the news of other worlds best so. To live on and 
think of her, my pearl, my white lily ! — yes, let me call her 
so once in secret, as if she were indeed mine — to think of 
her in pitiless possession of the man who is her husband — 
this would drive me out of sober reason. Better to forget 
it and go elsewhere. Love is a mystery which God or 
the gods only can explain. But of this I am sure — that 
if a man loves once and truly, he must so love always. 
Custom and law and creed cannot control it, nothing can 
pacify it, nothing can quench the fire burning here” — and 
he laid one hand on his breast — “except the full posses- 
sion of the one beloved, and — the other alternative — 


62 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

death. After that death? What shall I find? Myself 
again with all my sorrow ? or God ?” 

He raised his eyes with a wondering look to the bright 
moon and stars. 

'‘Worlds unexplored, universes unguessed, mysteries 
unfathomed ! ” he murmured ; “all vague and vast and in- 
explicable, yet surely full of promise. There must be 
something — something behind the veil, when spirits are 
stripped of mortality and front each other unafraid! 
There must be love ; there should be peace ! God ! in Thy 
unknown deeps of life, let me lose myself and find — 
Thee !” 

Still keeping the same restful, half-reclining attitude, 
he slowly raised his right hand, and looked thoughtfully 
at the ruby ring that shone there; then he deliberately 
placed the splendid jewel between his lips, drawing it in 
with the lingering delicacy of one who* is tasting for the 
first time some rare and precious cordial. A minute or 
so elapsed, and he let his hand drop gently again at his 
side. The ruby centre of the ring was open and showed 
a small cavity within, a cavity now quite empty. 

An hour passed and the Maharajah did not move. Ap- 
parently he slept, and a peaceful smile rested on his fea- 
tures. He might have been taken for a figure cast in 
bronze, he was so very still. The moon sank out of sight, 
and the pale pink flush of dawn began to spread softly 
over the horizon. Delicious puffs of fragrance arose 
from the thousands of flowers and scented shrubs that 
grew in the fairy-like gardens surrounding the palace, and 


The Silence of the Maharajah. 63 


presently, as the morning advanced, the Maharajah’s con- 
fidential servant appeared according to his usual custom, 
to bring his master’s breakfast and receive his orders for 
the day. He approached noiselessly, and, with a look of 
wonder, which quickly deepened into fear, surveyed his 
lord. He touched his robe; there was no responsive 
movement of that still figure, majestic in its attitude of 
proud repose. He called, first softly, then loudly; there 
was no answer. Falling on his knees, he caught up the 
inert right hand and saw the ruby ring with its secret 
cavity open — the ring which he alone of all the house- 
hold knew had contained the swiftest and deadliest of 
Eastern poisons. With a cry of horror, he sprang up and 
looked wildly about him ; then, realizing that all help was 
unavailing, he fell down again at his master’s feet, and 
there crouching, covered his face and wept despairingly. 

Not a hundred miles away a certain “officer and gen- 
tleman” was playing off coarse witticisms among his fel- 
lows at the expense of “a petty native prince” who had 
presumed to fall in love with his wife — “an English mar- 
ried woman, by Jove ! like his confounded impudence !” 
— the “petty native prince” himself being far beyond even 
the wide-reaching influence of that supreme British scorn 
which is levied against everything not of its own cult and 
country. A bright gold point like a lifted spear flashed 
above the eastern hills — the sun was rising — the faint 
murmurings of insects and the fluttering of birds’ wings 
stirred the warm and odorous foliage; the light swiftly 
broadened upward and fell in ardent waves of heat and 


64 The Silence of the Maharajah. 

splendor over the palace roof and its twisted garlands of 
flowers, touching with tender warmth the rigid figure 
seated in grave kingliness beside the great telescope point- 
ed heavenward ; all the gentle and familiar noises of wak- 
ing life beginning a new day filled the air with their cus- 
tomary sweet monotony. But the silence of the Mahara- 
jah was complete, and never to be broken. 


“THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.” 


AN OLD RHYME WITH A “NEW” READING. 

“Three Wise Men of Gotham 
Went to sea in a bowl, 

Had the bowl been stronger 
My song might have been longer ” 

The Three Wise Men sat together in their club smok- 
ing-room. They were met there for a purpose — a sol- 
emnly resolved purpose — though that fact was not to be 
discovered in the expression of their faces or their atti- 
tudes. The casual observer, glancing at them in that 
ignorant yet opinionated fashion which casual observers 
generally affect, would have sternly pronounced them to 
be idle loafers and loungers without a purpose of any 
sort, and only fit to be classified with the “drones” or do- 
nothings of the social hive. Three stalwart bodies re- 
clined at ease in the soft depths of three roomy saddle- 
bag chairs; and from three cigars of the finest flavor 
three little spiral wreaths of pale blue smoke mounted 
steadily toward the ceiling. 

It was a fine day: the window was open, and outside 
roared the surging sea of human life in Piccadilly. Rays 
of sunshine danced round the Wise Men, polishing up the 
bald spot on head number one, malignly bringing into 
prominence the gray hairs on head number two, and 


66 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


shining a warm approval on the curly brown locks of 
head number three. The screech of the wild newsboy 
echoed up and down the street — “Hextra speshul ! Even- 
ing piper! Evening pepper! Piper! Westy-min-ister 
speshul ! Hall the winners !” A spruce dandy alighting 
from a hansom commenced a lively altercation with the 
cabby thereof, creating intense excitement in the breasts 
of four Christian brethren — to wit: a dirty crossing- 
sweeper, a match-seller, a district messenger-boy, and a 
man carrying a leaden water-pipe. “Call yerself a 
masher !” cried cabby, vociferously. “Git along 
with yer, an’ hask one of the club blokes to 
lend yer ’arf a crown !” Here the man carry- 
ing the leaden water pipe became convulsed with 
mirth, and observed, “Bully, ain’t it?” confidentially 
to the messenger boy, who grinningly agreed, the smartly- 
dressed young dandy growing scarlet with rage and in- 
sulted dignity. The dispute was noisy, and some minutes 
elapsed before it was settled ; yet through it all the mystic 
Three Wise Men never stirred to see what was the matter, 
but smoked on in tranquil silence with closed eyes. 

At last one of them moved, yawned, and broke the 
spell. He was fair, stoutish and florid; and when he 
opened his eyes they proved to be of a good, clear blue, 
honest in expression, and evidently meant for fun; so 
much so, indeed, that though their owner was by no 
means in a laughing humor at the moment, he was pow- 
erless to repress their comic twinkle. His name was 
George — George Fairfax — and he was a “gentleman at 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 67 


ease,” with nothing to do but to look after his estates, 
which, as he was not addicted to either betting, drink- 
ing or gambling, brought him in a considerably substan- 
tial yearly income. 

'‘Fact is,” he said, addressing himself to his two com- 
panions, whose eyelids were still fast shut, “the world’s a 
mistake. It ought never to have been created. Things 
go wrong in it from morning till night. Fellows who 
write books tell you how wrong it is; they ought to 
know.” Here he knocked off the end of his cigar into 
the ash-tray. “Then, read the newspapers: by the Lord 
Harry! they’ll soon prove to you how wrong everything 
is everywhere !” 

Man number two, in the chair next to Fairfax, hap- 
pened to be the individual with the hair approved of by 
the sunshine — a long-limbed, well-built fellow, with a 
rather handsome face. Unclosing his eyes, which were 
dark and languid, he sighed wearily. 

“No world in it!” he murmured in brief, sleepy ac- 
cents. “Social institutions — civilization — wrong. Man 
meant for free life — savage — forest ; no houses — no clubs 
— raw meat — suits digestion — no dyspepsia — tear with 
fingers ; polygamy. Read ‘Woman Who Did’ — female 
polygamist — live with anybody, noble; marriage, base 
degradation — white rose in hair — polygamous purity — 
died.” 

Exhausted by this speech, he closed his eyes again, 
and would no doubt have relapsed into an easy slumber 
had not man number three suddenly waked up in earnest, 


68 


“ Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


disclosing a pair of very keen, bright gray eyes, sparkling 
under brows that, by their shelving form, would have 
seemed to denote a fair depth of intelligence. 

‘‘Look here, you fellows/’ he said, sharply, “it’s no use 
mincing matters. Things have come to a crisis. We 
must take the law into our own hands and see what can 
be done. Life as we live it — married life — has become 
impossible. You said so yourself, Adair” — this with head 
reproachfully turned toward the languid being with the 
shut eyes — “you said no man of sense or spirit would 
stand it !” 

Adair rolled his head feebly to and fro on the saddle- 
bag chair-pillow. 

“Sense — spirit — all up in me !” he replied dolefully. 
“Pioneers !” 

As this word escaped him, more in the way of a groan 
than an utterance, man number three, otherwise known 
as John Dennison, gave a gesture of contempt. Den- 
nison was a particularly lucky individual, who had man- 
aged to make a large fortune while he was yet young, 
through successful land speculations; and now at his 
present age of forty-eight he bore scarcely any traces of 
the passing of time, save the small bald spot on the top 
of his head which the sunlight had discovered, but which 
few less probing searchers would have perceived. He 
was of an energetic, determined temperament, and the 
listless attitude and confessed helplessness of Adair ex- 
cited him to action. Shaking himself out of his reclin- 
ing posture, and sitting bolt upright, he said sternly : 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 69 


“Look here, Adair, you’re too lazy to go through with 
this thing. If you don’t show a little more character 
and firmness, Fairfax and I will have to slope it without 
you.” 

At this Adair opened his eyes wide, and also sat up, 
wearing an extremely astonished and injured expres- 
sion. 

“I say, old man!” he expostulated — “no threats — bad 
form — sneak out of promise — oh, by Jove !” 

“Well, then, pay some attention to the question in 
hand,” said Dennison, mollified. “Have we, or have 
we not, resolved to make a move?” 

“We have!” declared Fairfax emphatically. 

“Must make a move !” groaned Adair. 

“I ask you both,” went on Dennison, “does it look 
well, is it creditable to us as men — men of position, in- 
fluence, and sufficient wealth — that we should be known 
in society as the merest appendages to our wives? Is 
it decent?” 

“Damned indecent, I think !” said Fairfax, hotly. 

Adair gazed straight before him with the most woe- 
begone expression. 

“Awful lot of fellows — same predicament,” he re- 
marked. “Wife pretty — drags ugly man round — intro- 
duces him casually, ‘Oh, my husband!’ — and all society 
grins at the poor chap. Wife ugly — goes in for foot- 
ball — asks husband to be spectator — kicks ball his way 
— says ‘Excuse me!’ — then explains to people standing 
by, ‘My husband!’ and the poor devil wishes he were 


70 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


dead. Fact! Lots of ’em, I tell you! We’re not the 
only ones.” 

“Of course we’re not,” said Dennison. “I never sup- 
posed we were. But we are three — and three of us can 
show an example to the others. We will give these 
women a lesson, my boys ! — a lesson they’ll never for- 
get. Have you made up your minds?” 

“I have!” said Fairfax, determinedly. “And I know 
Adair will be with me — why, he and I were married on 
the same day, weren’t we, Frank?” 

Frank smiled mournfully. 

“Yes, and didn’t the girls look pretty then — your 
Belle and my Laura!” 

“Ah! who would have thought it!’ sighed Fairfax. 
“Why my wife was the simplest soul that ever lived 
then — happy as a bird, full of life and fun, no nonsense of 
any sort in her head ; and as for dogs — well, she liked 
them, of course, but she didn’t worship them ; she didn’t 
belong to the Ladies’ Kennel Association, or any other 
association, and she didn’t worry herself about prizes 
and exhibitions. Now it’s all dogs — dogs and horses ; 
and as for that little beast Bibi, who has taken more 
medals than a fighting general, I believe she loves it 
better than her own boys. It’s a horrible craze for a 
woman to be doggy.” 

“It’s not so bad as being Pioneery,” said Adair, rous- 
ing himself up at this part of the conversation. “Your 
wife’s a very pretty woman, George, and a clever one, 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 71 

but my wife — well ” He broke off and waved his 

hand in a descriptive fashion. 

“Yes, I admit it,” said Fairfax, respectfully. “Your 
wife is lovely — a really beautiful creature; no one can 
deny it.” 

“That being the case,” continued Adair, “what do you 
suppose she can want with the Pioneers?” 

The other two Wise Men shook their heads des- 
perately. 

“Only yesterday,” resumed Adair, “I went home quite 
unexpectedly in- time for afternoon tea. She was in the 
drawing-room, wearing a new teagown and looking 
charming. ‘Oh !’ said she, with a cool smile, ‘you home ! 
At this hour! How strange! Have some tea?’ And 
nothing more. Presently in came a gaunt woman — short 
hair, skimped skirt, and man’s coat. Up jumps Laura, 
hugs her, kisses her, cries ‘Oh, you dear thing! How 
sweet of you to come!’ She was a Pioneer — and she 
got kissed. I had no kiss. I was not called a ‘dear thing.’ 
I’ve got short hair and a man’s coat, but it doesn’t go 
down, somehow, on me. It used to, before we were mar- 
ried; but it doesn’t now.” 

“Stop a bit!” interposed Dennison, suddenly and al- 
most fiercely. “Think of me ! I’ve been married longer 
than either of you, and I know a thing or two! Talk 
of fads ! my wife goes in for them all ! She’s mad on 
’em ! Wherever there’s a faddist, you’ll find her. 
Whether it’s the Anti-Corset League, or the Nourishing 
Bread Society, or the Social Reformation Body, or any- 


72 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


thing else you like to' think of, she’s in it. I’ve got 
nothing to say against her intentions; she means well, 
too well, all round; but she is so absorbed in her ‘meet- 
ings,’ and ‘councils,’ and ‘boards,’ and what not, that 
I assure you she forgets me entirely. I don’t believe she 
realizes my existence ! When I go home of an even- 
ing she hands me the papers and magazines with an 
amiably provoking smile, as if she thought the damned 
news was all I could possibly want ; then she goes to her 
desk and writes letters — scratch, scratch all the time. 
She never gives me a word ; and as for a kiss !” — here 
he gave an angry laugh — “God bless my soul ! she never 
thinks of it!” 

“I expect,” said George Fairfax, seriously, “we are 
too old-fashioned in our notions, Dennison. Lots of 
fellows would go and console themselves with other 
women.” 

“Of course they would,” retorted Dennison. “There 
are plenty of dirty cads about who act that way. And I 
believe, as it is, we don’t get much credit for keeping 
clean. I daresay our wives think we are as bad as we 
might be.” 

“They’ve no cause to,” said Adair, quietly. “And if 
I had any suspicion that Laura entertained a low opinion 
of me, I should take the liberty of giving her a piece of 
my mind.” 

Fairfax and Dennison looked at him, gravely at first; 
then they laughed. 

“A piece of your mind,” echoed Dennison. “I think 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 73 


I know what it would amount to; just a 'By Jove! too 
bad !’ and you would go to smoke and think it over. 
No ; we cannot offer 'pieces of our minds’ to our spouses 
on any subject whatsoever, because, you see, we cannot 
bring any actual cause of complaint against them. They 
are good women ” 

His friends nodded. 

“Good-looking women ” 

More nods. 

“And clever women.” 

“Yes!” sighed Adair. “That’s the worst of it. If 
they had only been stupid ” 

“They would have been dull!” interposed Fairfax. 

“And they might have grown fat,” murmured Adair, 
with a shudder. 

“Well,” went on Dennison, “they are not stupid, they 
are not dull, and they are not fat. We have agreed that 
they are good, good-looking, and clever. Yet, with these 
three qualities, something is wrong with them. What 
is it?” 

“I know,” said Adair. “It is want of heart.” 

“Indifference to home and home affections,” said Fair- 
fax, sternly. 

“All comprised in one glaring fault,” declared Denni- 
son; “a fault that entirely spoils the natural sweetness 
of their original dispositions. It is the want of proper 
respect and reverence for Us; for Us as men; Us as 
husbands !” 

Nothing could have been more majestically grandilo- 


74 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


quent than Dennison’s manner while making this state- 
ment, and his two friends gazed admiringly at him in 
speechless approval. 

“This state of things,” he went on, “must be remedied. 
All the unloved, miserable, hysterical women who have 
lately taken to cackling about their rights and wrongs 
are doing it, I believe, out of sheer malice and envy, in 
an effort to make happy wives discontented. The up- 
heaval and rending of home affections must be stopped. 
Our wives, for example, appear to have no conception 
of our admiration and affection for them ” 

“Perhaps,” interposed Fairfax, “they think that we 
have no conception of their admiration and affection 
for us!” 

“Oh! I say, that won’t do, old fellow,” murmured 
Adair. “Admiration for us is no go ! You don’t sup- 
pose Laura, for instance, admires me? Not much; 
though I believe she used to. Of course, Mrs. Fairfax 
may admire you ” 

Here a faint smile began to play about his mouth, 
which widened into an open laugh as he surveyed Fair- 
fax’s broad, good-natured countenance — a laugh in 
which Fairfax himself joined so heartily that the water 
came into his eyes. 

“No; of course it’s ridiculous,” he said, recovering 
himself at last. “She couldn’t admire me. She’s too 
pretty herself. All she sees is a red-faced man coming 
home punctually to dinner. However, she admires Bibi.” 

“Bother admiration,” struck in Dennison, sharply. 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


75 


“I didn’t suggest that our wives should admire us; I 
said that they should reverence and respect us ; and I also 
said I thought they appeared to be quite indifferent to 
the admiration and affection we have for them.” 

“That’s true!” said Fairfax, gloomily. “It’s a positive 
fact.” 

“Well then,” went on Dennison, “as they don’t seem 
to want us, let’s clear out.” 

“Agreed !” said Adair. “Gold coast and fever for me !” 

“Same for me,” said Fairfax. “I don’t want a healthy 
climate !” 

“All right. I’ll see to that!” And Dennison stood 
up, smiling a grim smile. “We’ll take the worst part of 
the coast, where even the natives die ! Of course I shall 
tell my wife where I am going.” 

This with dreadful emphasis. 

“And I shall tell mine,” said Fairfax. 

“And I mine,” sighed Adair. 

“Now come and look at the maps and the days of sail- 
ing,” went on Dennison. “We can easily start in a fort- 
night.” 

They left the smoking-room for the reading-room, 
and were soon absorbed in the discussion of their plans. 

That evening, when Adair went home, he found his 
wife dressed for a party, and looking radiantly youthful 
and lovely. 

“Going out somewhere to-night, Laura?” he inquired, 
languidly, as his eyes took in every detail of her grace- 
ful figure and really beautiful face. 


7 6 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


“Yes,” she replied. “Only round the corner to the 
Jacksons. They have an ‘at home/ Will you come?” 

“No, thanks,” he said, as he sat down to dinner. “I 
hate crushes.” 

She made no comment, but simply took her place at 
table and smiled upon him like a beneficent angel. He, 
meanwhile, was thinking within himself that she was 
the very prettiest woman he had ever seen ; but he con- 
sidered that if he ventured to express that thought aloud 
she would laugh at him. A husband to compliment his 
wife? Pooh! the thing was unheard of! Besides, the 
butler was in the room — a civil man in black, of high 
repute and decorous character — and he would have been 
truly shocked had his master made any remark of a 
personal nature during the course of his attendance at 
dinner. When this dignified retainer had departed, leav- 
ing husband and wife alone to dessert, the impulse to say 
pretty things to his better half was no longer dominant in 
Adairs mind, so instead of a compliment he made an 
announcement. 

“Laura, I am going away.” 

She looked at him straightly, her soft violet eyes 
opening a little more than usual. 

“Are you?” 

“Yes. I want a change,” he said, keeping his gaze 
riveted on the table-cloth, and trying to work himself up 
to the required pitch of melodramatic feeling, “a change 
from this hum-drum society life where — where I am not 
wanted. You see, I don’t get enough to do here in 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 77 

London. I’m sick of town life. I’m not necessary to 
you” — this with a touch of bitterness. “You can do 
the social round well enough without me, and I — I’m 
going to try roughing it for a time.” 

Had he looked up that moment, he would have seen 
his wife’s face growing pale, and he might also have 
noted that her breath came and went quickly, as though 
she were trying to suppress some strong emotion; but 
he did not look — not just then ; he only heard her speak, 
and her voice was both cheerful and calm. 

“What fun!” she said. “It will do you a world of 
good !” 

He looked up this time, and his expression was one 
of reproachful astonishment. 

“Fun!” he echoed. “Well, I don’t know about that. 
I am going to the Gold Coast with Jack Dennison. It’s 
full of fever, and even the natives die. I don’t suppose 
I shall escape scot-free.” 

“Why do you go, then?” she asked, with a smile, ris- 
ing from her chair and preparing to put on her evening 
cloak. Adair rose also, and. taking the mantle from her 
hands, put it round her. 

“Why do I go?” he echoed, with just the slightest 
suspicion of a tremor in his voice. “Well, if you can’t 
guess, Laura, I can’t explain. I couldn’t be rough with 
you for the world, and it might sound rough to say that 
I know you’re sick of me, and that I’m better out of 
your way for a time. Married people ought to separate 
occasionally ; it’s quite natural you should get bored see- 


78 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


ing me every day of your life. You wouldn’t take to the 
‘Pioneers’ if you weren’t in need of a change of some 
sort from the monotony of my company. If I go off to 
Africa, I shall have the pleasure of hoping you’ll be glad 
to see me back. It’ll give you time to be glad. At pres- 
ent you can’t be glad, because you see too much of me. 
You don’t mind my going?” 

“Not in the least!” she answered, and to his secret 
indignation he fancied he saw almost a laugh in her 
eyes. “I think it will be jolly for you. And Jack Den- 
nison is going, is he?” 

“Yes, and George Fairfax.” 

“Really! How nice! You three were always such 
good chums. I expect you’ll have a perfectly lovely trip. 
When arc you thinking of starting?” 

“In a fortnight.” 

“Delightful ! We must have a little dinner-party be- 
fore you go to wish you all luck ! I hope you mean to 
bring me some nuggets and any amount of queer neck- 
laces and bracelets and barbaric ornaments. Ta-ta for 
the present ! I must be off or I shall be late at the Jack- 
sons. Don’t sit up for me !” 

She floated gracefully out of the room like a sylph on 
wings, giving him a dazzling smile as she went. When 
she had quite disappeared he flung himself into a chair 
and said, “Damn it!” very gently. Then he lit a big 
cigar, and meditated. 

“She doesn’t care a bit!” he reflected. “That hint 
about even the natives dying didn’t affect her in the 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 79 

least. She is quite callous. Ah ! this is what comes of 
social faddists and problemists, and the artificial ‘tone’ at 
which life is taken nowadays. All humbug and sham, 
and no time for sentiment. Love? — pooh! — that’s over 
and done with; there’s no such thing. Upon my life, I 
believe if I were? dead Laura would only squeeze a 
couple of tears out of those pretty eyes of hers, and then 
set about considering the newest fashions for mourning.” 

While he sat thus absorbed in solitary musings of a 
sufficiently dreary and despondent character, his friend 
George Fairfax had likewise gone home to dinner, and 
had, in quite another sort of fashion, broken the news 
of his intended departure to his wife, an exceedingly 
pretty, lively little woman, with a quantity of fair hair 
and dancing, laughing, roguish blue eyes. 

“Well, I sha’n’t be here for the Dog Show!” he re- 
marked, abruptly, shooting out the words with fierce em- 
phasis, and casting an indignant glance at a tiny York- 
shire “toy” terrier that was curled up in its mistress’ lap 
like a ball of fine-spun silk. “I shall be thousands of 
miles away. And if you want to ‘wire’ me any of Bibi’s 
triumphs you’ll find it expensive.” 

“Really !” and Mrs. Fairfax looked up sweetly, strok- 
ing her pet the while. “Why, where are you going?” 

“To Africa !” replied her husband, solemnly. “To the 
Gold Coast — to the worst part, where fever rages, and 
where even the natives die.” 

He pronounced the last words with particular em- 
phasis. But she remained perfectly placid : she only bent 


8o 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


over Bibi, and murmured with an ecstatic chuckle, “Oh, 
zoo ducky ittle sing!” 

George stared very hard at her without producing 
any impression, and in a deeply injured tone he resumed : 
“Yes; I am going out with Jack Dennison. I find it 
necessary; in fact, imperative, to go ” 

“Ah, yes, agricultural affairs are in a bad way!” she 
said, sympathetically. “Do you know, I thought you 
would have losses this year on the lands — rentals are go- 
ing down so much, and everything is so hopeless for the 
farmers ; I really think you are wise to try and recuperate. 
I suppose Dennison has got a mine or something?” 

He favored her with a look that was meant to be 
scornful, but which only succeeded in being plaintive. 

“You mistake the position, Belle,” he said, with severe 
politeness. “I have had no losses, I do not need to re- 
cuperate, and Dennison has no mine. I am going be- 
cause I wish to go ; because, as I have had occasion to 
mention to you before, I do not appear to be wanted 
here. You are too much absorbed in — in your ‘kennel’ 
duties to attend to me ;” and here he gave vent to what 
he considered a culminating burst of sarcasm. “Yes, I 
feel in the dog’s way. The dog is master here — I am 
not. You have several dogs, I know; but the dog, the 
one I mean at present in your lap, is the chief object of 
your consideration, tenderness, and interest. He always 
takes prizes ; he deserves attention. I do not take 
prizes; I cannot compete with him. Therefore I am 
going away for a change — a change from society and 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham/’ 81 

dog shows. It will do me good to grapple with danger 
and death ’ — here he looked as tragic as his amiable, 
round face would allow him — “and when I return home 
again, after many adventures, you will be glad, perhaps, 
to see me.” 

His wife’s eyes twinkled prettily, like sapphires, as she 
surveyed him. 

“Of course I shall be glad,” she said, frankly; “but I 
quite agree with you in thinking that the trip will do you 
all the good in the world. I have thought for some time 
that you’ve been a little out of sorts — a trifle hypochon- 
driacal — or a touch of the spleen ; because you say such 
funny things.” (“Funny things?” George was speech- 
less.) “And Dennison will make a splendid traveling 
companion. When do you go?” 

“In a fortnight,” he answered, feebly, utterly bewil- 
dered at her cool way of taking what he thought would 
prove a startling and fulminating announcement. 

“Oh, then I must see to your flannel shirts,” she ob- 
served. “They wear flannel next to the skin as a pre- 
ventive of fever in Africa.” 

“Ah ! there’s no preventive against that fever,” he mut- 
tered, morosely, adding almost under his breath, “Even 
the natives die!” 

“Oh, I should think quinine and flannel would be use- 
ful,” she responded, cheerfully. “The natives don’t know 
how to take care of themselves, poor things ! English- 
men do. I sha’n’t be a bit anxious about you.” 

“Won’t you? No, I don’t suppose you will;” and 


82 


“ Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


Fairfax began to feel rather snappish. “It isn’t as if I 
were Bibi. Adair is going, too.” 

“Is he really? Can he bear to leave his lovely Laura?” 

“His lovely Laura will get on very well without him, 
I dare say,” retorted Fairfax. “By the time he comes 
back she’ll very likely be in knickerbockers, playing foot- 
ball with the Pioneers!” 

With this parting shot he marched out of the room 
in haste, disappointed and indignant at his wife’s indif- 
ference. She, left alone, lay back in her chair and in- 
dulged in a hearty laugh, which had the effect of rous- 
ing the pampered “Bibi” to such a pitch of wonder that 
he found it necessary to rise on his hind legs and apply 
his cold, wet nose to his mistress’s chin with a mild sniff 
of inquiry. She caught the pretty little animal up in 
her arms and kissed its silky head, still laughing and mur- 
muring. “Oh, Bibi ! men are funny creatures ! — ever so 
much funnier than dogs ! You can’t imagine how nice 
and funny they are, Bibi !” 

After a while she became serious, though her eyes 
still danced with mirth. Putting her little dog down, she 
began to count on her fingers. 

“In a fortnight — well, I must see Laura, and find out 
what she thinks about it. Then we’ll both go and con- 
sult Mrs. Dennison. The boys are at school — so that’s 
all right. I wonder what the steamer is? We can easily 
find out. Dear old George ! what a silly he is ! And John 
Dennison and Frank Adair are equally silly — three of the 


“ Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 83 

dearest old noodles that ever lived! I must see Laura 
to-morrow.” 

Meanwhile a conversation more or less similar had 
taken place between Mr. and Mrs. Dennison. John was 
a man of action, and prided himself on the swift (and 
obstinate) manner in which he invariably made up his 
mind. His wife did not consider herself behind him in 
resolution ; she was a handsome woman of about thirty- 
eight, with a bright expression and a frank, sweet smile 
of her own which proved very attractive to her friends, 
who came to her with all their troubles, and gave her 
their unbounded confidence. She was active, strong, 
and energetic, and never wasted a moment in useless 
argument; so that when her husband said, quite sud- 
denly, “I am going to Africa,” she accepted the state- 
ment calmly as a settled thing, and merely inquired : 

“When?” 

He eyed her severely. 

“In a fortnight,” he answered, jerking out his words 
like so many clicks of a toy-pistol. “Gold Coast. Bad 
place for fever. Even the natives die.” 

Mrs. Dennison’s tender heart was touched at once, 
but, as her husband thought, in quite the wrong way. 

“Poor things!” she said, pityingly; “I dare say their 
notions of medicine are very primitive. You must take 
a double quantity of quinine with you, John, dear, and 
you may be able to save many lives.” 

He stared at her, his face reddening visibly. 

“God bless my soul, Mary, I shall have enough to do 


84 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 

in taking care of my own life,” he snapped out, “with- 
out bothering after the natives. You don’t seem to think 
of that I” 

“Oh, yes, I do,” responded Mary, very tranquilly. 
“But you are a strong, healthy man, John, and very sen- 
sible ; you know how to look after yourself — no one 
better; and I should indeed be silly if I felt any anxiety 
about you. May I ask what you are going to the Gold 
Coast for? or is it a secret?” 

Now, John Dennison was, on the whole, a good fel- 
low; honest, honorable, and true to the heart’s core; but 
with all his virtues he had a temper, and he showed it 
just then. 

“No, it is not a secret, madam !” he burst forth, trem- 
bling from head to foot with the violence of his emotions. 
“If I were to speak quite plainly, I should say the reason 
of my going is an open scandal ! Yes, that is what it is ! 
Oh, you may look at me as if you thought me a trouble- 
some lunatic — you have that irritating way, you know — 
but I mean it. I may as well be a wanderer and a vaga- 
bond on the face of the earth, for I have no home. What 
should be my home is turned into a meeting-place for all 
the crack-brained faddists in London, who form ‘so- 
cieties’ for want of anything better or more useful to do. 
It may be very interesting to talk and make speeches 
about the necessity of feeding the people on nourishing 
bread instead of non-nourishing alum stuff, but it has 
nothing to do with me! I don’t personally care what 
the people eat, or what they don’t eat. I ought to care, 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 85 


I suppose, but I don’t! When I was a hard-working 
lad, I ate what I could get, and was thankful; no nice 
ladies and gentlemen met in drawing-rooms to assert 
that I was badly fed, and that I ought to be looked after 
more tenderly. ‘Fads’ were not in fashion then; people 
fought for themselves manfully, as they should do, and 
came up or went down according to their own capabili- 
ties ; and there wasn’t all this cosseting and coddling of 
the silly and incompetent. It is quite ridiculous that in 
an age like ours a ‘society’ should be formed for the 
purpose of teaching the majority what sort of bread to 
eat. By the Lord Harry, if they’re such confounded 
idiots that they can’t distinguish between good bread 
and bad, they deserve to starve. Even the dullest don- 
key knows the difference between a real turnip and a 
sham one. I’ve given you my opinion on this sort of 
subjects before. I’m against all ‘Leagues’ and ‘Bodies’ 
and ‘Working Committees.’ I hate them. You like 
them. That’s where we differ. You, in your Anti-Corset 
League, want to make girls give up tight-lacing ; now, I 
say, let them tight-lace till they split in half, if they like 
it; there’ll only be so many feminine fools the less in 
the world. And as for the ‘Social Reformation’ busi- 
ness — pah ! that’s not fit for a decent woman to meddle 
with. If women would only begin to ‘reform’ themselves, 
and make their husbands happy, society might be puri- 
fied to a great extent; but so long as husbands are 
looked upon as a nuisance, husbands a bore, and chil- 
dren a curse, nothing but misery can come of it. And 


86 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


the reason I am going away is this — that I do not feel 
myself the master of my own house ; there are too many 
‘Committees’ accustomed to meet in it at their own 
discretion; your time is entirely taken up with laudable 
efforts to improve the community”— here he indulged in 
a mild sneer — “so much so that I have become nothing 
but an unnecessary appendage to the importance of your 
position. Now” — and he grew fierce again — “I do not 
choose to play second fiddle to any one, least of all to 
my own wife. So I shall clear out and leave you to it. 
George Fairfax and Frank Adair feel the domestic 
wretchedness of their positions as keenly as I do, and 
they are going out to the Gold Coast with me. I shall 
provide you amply with means — and they will do the 
same on behalf of their wives — and we shall be absent for 
a considerable time. In fact, who knows whether we 
may ever come back at all?” — here his voice became 
sepulchral. “Fortunately, our wills are made!” 

He ceased. Throughout his somewhat lengthy tirade 
his wife had sat quite still, patiently listening, her hands 
reposefully folded over a book on her knee, her eyes 
regarding him with a clear steadfastness in which there 
was a soft lurking gleam of something like compassion. 
Now that he had finished what he had to say she spoke, 
in gentle deliberate accents. 

“I am to understand, then, my poor John,” she said, 
almost maternally, “that you are leaving home on ac- 
count of your dislike to the way I try to employ myself 
(very ineffectually I admit) in doing good to others?” 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 87 


He gave a short nod of assent and turned his eyes 
away from her. It rather troubled him to be called “my 
poor John !” 

“And Mr. Adair finds equal fault with his beautiful 
girl-wife Laura !” 

“Poor Adair has equal reason to find fault,” was the 
stern reply. “A man may very well become crusty when 
he finds the woman he loves to adoration deliberately 
rejecting his affection for that of a Pioneer!” 

A curious little trembling appeared to affect Mrs. Den- 
nison’s full white throat, suggestive of a rising bubble 
of laughter . that was instantly suppressed. 

“Mr. Fairfax, you say, is going also?” she murmured 
gently. 

“He is. Not having the necessary qualifications for a 
dog-trainer, he is not required in his home,” replied her 
husband, with intense bitterness. “Dogs now occupy 
Mrs. Fairfax’s whote time, to the total exclusion of her 
domestic duties.” 

Mrs. Dennison was silent for a little while, thinking. 
Then she put the book she held carefully down on a 
side-table, and rose in all her stately height and elegance, 
looking the very beau ideal of a handsome English ma- 
tron. Crossing over to where her husband stood, she 
laid her plump, pretty hand, sparkling with rings, ten- 
derly on his bald spot, and said in the sweetest of voices : 

“Well, John, dear, all I can say is that I am delighted 
you are going ! It will do you good ; in fact, it’s the very 
best thing possible for all three of you. I think you’ve 


88 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


all been too comfortable and lazy for a long time ; a 
voyage to the Gold Coast will be the very tonic you re- 
quire. Of course, I’m sorry you’ve no sympathy with 
me in my humble efforts to do a little useful work among 
my fellow-women during my leisure days and while the 
children are at school, but I don’t blame you a bit. Of 
course, you have your ideas of life just as I have mine, 
and there’s no need for us to be rude to each other 
or quarrel about it. An ocean trip will be just splendid 
for you. I’ll see to your things. I know pretty well 
what you will want in Africa. I fitted out a poor fellow 
only the other day, who was convicted of his first theft ; 
the gentleman he robbed wouldn’t prosecute, because 
of the sad circumstances. It’s too long a story to tell 
now, but we got him a place out in Africa with a kind 
farmer, and I fitted him out. So I know just the kind 
of flannels and things required.” 

“Exactly!” said Dennison, quivering and snorting 
with repressed wrath and pain. “Fit me out like a con- 
victed thief ! Nothing could be better ! Suit me down 
to the ground !” 

His wife looked at him with that kind maternal air of 
hers and laughed. She had a very musical laugh. 

“Oh, you dear old boy!” she said, cheerfully. “You 
must always have your little joke, you know!” 

And with that she moved in a queen-like way across 
the room, and out of it. 

Left alone, John sank into a chair and wiped his fevered 
brow. 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 89 


“Was there every such a woman !” he groaned within 
himself despairingly. “To think that she once loved me ! 
and now — now she takes my going to a malarial climate 
as coolly as if it were a mere trip across Channel and 
back ! What a heart of stone ! These handsome women 
(she is a handsome woman) are as impervious to all senti- 
ment as — as icebergs ! And as for tact, she has none. 
Fancy bringing that convicted thief into the conversation ! 
Almost as if she thought I resembled him! Oh, the 
sooner I’m out of England the better! I’ll lose myself 
in Africa, and she can get up an ‘Exploration Fund’ with 
a working committee, and pretend to try and find me. 
And then when she hasn’t found me, she can write a book 
of adventure (made up at home) entitled, ‘How I Found 
My Husband.’ That’s the way reputations are made 
nowadays, and by the Ford Plarry, what devilish humbug 
it all is !” 

Plunging his hands deep in his pockets, he sat and 
stared at the pattern of the carpet in solitary reverie, an- 
grily conscious, through all his musings, of having “felt 
small” in the presence of his wife, inasmuch as through- 
out their conversation she had maintained her wonted 
composure of grace, and he, though of the “superior” 
sex, had been unwise enough to lose his temper. 

Two or three days later Mrs. Dennison, Mrs. Fairfax 
and Mrs. Adair had what they called “a quiet tea.” They 
spent the whole afternoon together, shut up in Mrs. 
Adair’s elegant little boudoir, and spoke in low voices like 
conspirators. The only witness of their conference was 


90 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


Bibi, who took no interest whatever in their conversation, 
he being entirely absorbed in the contemplation of a tiger- 
skin rug which had a stuffed and very lifelike head. De- 
siring, yet fearing, to spring at the open throat and glit- 
tering teeth of this dreadfully alive-looking beast, Bibi 
occupied his time in making short runs and doubtful 
barks at it, and quite ignored the occasional ripples of soft 
and smothered laughter that escaped from the three fair 
ones seated round the tea-table, because he thought, in his 
“prize terrier” importance, that their amusement was 
merely derived from watching his cleverness. It never 
entered into his head that there could be any other subject 
in the world so entertaining and delightful as himself. 
So he continued his dead-tiger hunt, and the ladies con- 
tinued their causerie, till the tiny Louis Seize clock on the 
mantelpiece tinkled a silvery warning that it was time to 
break up the mysterious debate. 

“You’re quite agreed, then?” said Mrs. Dennison, as 
she rose and drew her mantle round her in readiness to 
depart. 

“Quite !” exclaimed Laura Adair, clasping her hands in 
ecstasy. “It will be glorious!” 

“Simply magnificent!” echoed Belle Fairfax, with rap- 
ture sparkling in her blue eyes ; then suddenly perceiving 
her Liliputian dog nigh upon actually getting bodily into 
the elaborately modeled throat of the tiger-head, she 
caught him up, murmuring, “Zoo naughty sing ! zoo sail 
go, too; rocky-pocky, uppy-downy, jiggamaree !” 

“Good heavens, Belle,” cried Mrs. Dennison, putting 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 91 

up her hands to her ears in affected horror, “no wonder 
your husband complains if he hears you talk such rubbish 
to that little monster!” 

“He isn’t a monster !” protested Belle, indignantly. 
“You can’t say it ; you daren’t ! Just look at him !” 

And she held Bibi up, sitting gravely on his haunches 
in one little palm of her hand. He looked so absurdly 
small and quaint, and withal had such a loving, clever, 
bright, wee face of his own, that Mrs. Dennison relented. 

“Positively he is a darling!” she said; “I’m bound to 
admit it. Landseer might have raved over him. No 
wonder your husband’s jealous of him!” 

All three ladies laughed gayly, though Laura had 
something like tears in her beautiful eyes. 

“I think,” she said, softly, “that as far as I am con- 
cerned, Frank may have a little cause to feel himself 
neglected. You see when one goes very much into so- 
ciety, as I do, one falls unconsciously into society’s ways, 
and one gets ashamed of showing too decided a liking for 
one’s own husband. It is a false shame, of course, but 
there it is. And I am really so deeply in love with Frank 
that when we were first married people remarked it, and 
other women made fun of me, and then — then I joined 
the Pioneers out of a silly notion of self-defense. The 
Pioneers, you know, are all against husbands and the 
tyrannies of men generally — even the loving tyrannies; 
and I thought if I was a Pioneer nobody would tease me 
any more for being too fond of my own husband. It 
was very stupid of me, yet when I once got among them 


92 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham/’ 


I felt so sorry for them all; they seemed to have such 
topsy-turvy notions of marriage and life generally, that I 
set myself to try and cheer up some of the loneliest and 
most embittered of the members, and do you know I 
have succeeded in making a few of them happier, but 
Frank sees it in the wrong light ” 

She stopped, and Belle Fairfax kissed her enthusiasti- 
cally. 

“You are a dear!” she declared. “The prettiest and 
sweetest woman alive ! The upshot of it all is, that if we 
have made mistakes with the dear old boys, so have they 
made mistakes with us, and we’ve hit upon the best plan 
in the world for proving how wrong they are. All we've 
got to do now is to carry out our scheme thoroughly and 
secretly.” 

“Leave that to me,” said Mrs. Dennison, smiling 
placidly; “only you two girls be ready — the rest is plain 
sailing.” 

The following week Mr. and Mrs. Dennison gave a 
little dinner party. The company numbered six, and were 
the host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. Adair and Mr. and 
Mrs. Fairfax. It was a “farewell” feast ; the ladies were 
in high spirits, the gentlemen spasmodically mirthful and 
anon depressed. Bright Mrs. Fairfax, at dessert, made 
a telling little speech, proposing the healths of “Our Three 
Dear Husbands! A pleasant trip and a safe return to 
their loving wives!” Laura smiled sweetly, and looked 
volumes as she kissed her glass and waved it prettily at 
Adair. Mrs. Dennison nodded smiling from behind the 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


93 


head of the table to her husband sitting glumly at the foot 
thereof, and Mrs. Fairfax openly wafted a kiss to the 
silent George, whose face was uncommonly red, and who, 
moreover, had evidently lost his usual excellent appetite. 
As a matter of fact, the Three Wise Men were very un- 
comfortable. Their wives had never seemed to them so 
perfectly fascinating, and they themselves had never felt 
so utterly “small” and embarrassed. However, they were 
all too obstinate to confess their sensations one to another ; 
their resolve was made, and there was no going back 
upon it without, as they considered, a loss of dignity. 

The days flew on with hurricane speed, and the even- 
ing came at last when they all said “good-by” to the fair 
partners of their lives and started for Southampton. They 
had purposely arranged to leave London on the evening 
before the steamer sailed, in order that during the silence 
and solitude of night each wife might have ample oppor- 
tunity for mournful meditation and the shedding of such 
repentant tears as are supposed to befit these occasions. 
But up to the last moment the fair ones maintained their 
aggravating cheerfulness; they were evidently more in- 
clined to laugh than to cry, and they bade farewell to their 
husbands “with nods and becks and wreathed smiles” 
suitable to festal jollity. There was no sentiment in their 
last words, either. Mrs. Dennison tripped out of her 
house to see her husband into his hansom, and pitching 
her “sweet soprano” in its highest key, cried : “Remem • 
ber, your things for the voyage are in the yellow port- 
manteau ! The yellow portmanteau, mind ! Good-by !” 


94 


"Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


“Good-by!” growled John. Then gathering himself 
into a heap in one corner of the cab, he said, “Damn the 
yellow portmanteau !” 

“Good-by, Frank, dear!” Laura Adair had chirruped 
like some pretty tame bird, as she raised herself on tip-toe 
to kiss her tall and handsome spouse. “All I ask is, do 
try not to get your nose sunburnt ! It is so unbecoming. 
Such a lot of African travelers have a peeled nose!” 

“I’ll do my best, Laura,” returned Frank, with melan- 
choly resignation. “If I live, I will take care of — my — 
nose. If I die ” 

“Oh, but you won’t die !” declared Laura, vivaciously. 
“You will come home and bring me heaps of nuggets.” 

Then the cab had driven off with him, and Laura had 
run into the' house like a wild creature to cry over the 
chair where he had lately sat, and to kiss the stump of 
cigar he had left in the ash-tray and roll it up in paper 
like a precious relic. Laughing and crying together, she 
behaved like a lunatic for about five minutes; then be- 
coming rapidly sensible, she murmured, “Darling ! It will 
soon be all right!” and went quietly upstairs to finish 
something she had to do in the way of packing. 

George Fairfax had to kiss the dog Bibi as well as his 
wife when he left, and his parting words were gruff and 
husky. He loved the bright little woman with the blue 
eyes, who stood watching him off with her little toy-ter- 
rier in her arms — loved her with all the tenderness of a 
strong man’s heart — and once or twice he was tempted 
to break his promise to Dennison and throw up the whole 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


95 


business. But he fought obstinately against his rising 
sentiment, and said, “Ta-ta, Belle !” as if he were going to 
the club for an hour, and she laughed, waved her hand, 
and said “Ta-ta” also. When he had actually gone, how- 
ever, she, like her friend Laura, cried and kissed things 
of his which she found lying about ; then she, too, became 
composed and practical, and, drying her eyes, went in her 
turn to finish something she had to do in the way of 
packing. 

Next morning the Three Wise Men stood together on 
the deck of the great ship outward bound, and mournfully 
watched the shores of England receding rapidly from 
their view. They had been almost the last to come on 
board, for having carefully told their wives at what hotel 
in Southampton a telegram would find them, they had, 
each one secretly, hoped against hope that some urgent 
message from home might have forced them (much 
against their wills, of course) to return in haste to Lon- 
don. But no such “reprieve” had been granted ; no news 
of any kind had arrived, and so there they were — -per- 
fectly free to carry out their plans, and steaming away 
as fast as possible from the land they held dearest and 
fairest, in all the world. They were very silent, but they 
thought a good deal. The captain of the ship, a jolly man, 
with a pleasant twinkle in his eye, spoke to them now and 
then in passing, and told them casually that there were 
several very pleasant ladies among the saloon passengers. 
They heard this with stoical indifference, verging on bil- 
ious melancholy. As the English coast vanished at last 


96 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


into a thin blue line on the edge of the horizon, George 
Fairfax broke the “dumb spell” by a profane “swear.” 

“Damn it ! I think Belle might have wired to say good- 
by!” 

“I confess I am surprised,” murmured Adair, slowly, 
“that Laura never thought of it.” 

“Women are all alike,” snapped Dennison. “Court 
them, and they’re all romance; marry them, and they’re 
dead to feeling.” And grumbling inaudibly, he went be- 
low. The other two followed him in gloomy resignation, 
angry with themselves and with all their surroundings. 
When, later on, they took their places at the dinner table, 
they were so unsociable, morose and irritable that none of 
the passengers cared to talk to them or attempted to 
“draw them out.” As for the women — “I see no pretty 
ones,” said Adair. 

“All old frumps !” grunted Fairfax. 

“Women’s rights and men’s lefts !” snarled Dennison. 

Three seats at table were empty. 

“Those three ladies who came on board early this morn- 
ing are dining below?” inquired the captain, cheerfully, 
of the steward. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Toward evening the wind freshened, and presently blew 
a heavy gale. The waves ran high, and many a bold 
heart began to sicken at the giddy whirl of waters, the 
nervous plunging of the ship, the shuddering of her huge 
bulk as she slipped down into the gulfs and climbed up 
again on the peaks of the foam-crested and furious bil- 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


97 


lows. Next day, and the two next after that, the storm 
went on increasing, till, in the Bay of Biscay, the clamor 
and confusion of the elements became truly appalling. All 
the passengers were kept below by the captain’s orders. 
The Three Wise Men lay in their berths, because it 
seemed better to lie there than try to stand upright and 
be tumbled about with the risk of breaking bones. Adair, 
too, was grievously sea-sick, and so reduced to utter men- 
tal and bodily misery that he thought nothing, knew noth- 
ing and cared nothing, though the heavens should crack. 
One night the wind sank suddenly, the waves continued 
to run into high hills and deep hollows with dizzy per- 
tinacity ; but there was a comparative calm, and with the 
calm came a blinding, close grey sea-fog. The steamer’s 
speed was slackened ; the dismal fog-horn blew its melan- 
choly warning note across the heaving waste of waters ; 
and partially soothed by the deadly monotony of the sound 
and the slower pace at which the ship moved, all Three 
Wise Men dropped off into a profound and peaceful slum- 
ber — the deepest and most restful they had enjoyed since 
they came on board. All at once, about the middle of the 
night, they were startled up and thrown violently from 
their berths by a frightful shock — a huge crash and crack- 
ing of timber. All the lights went out ; then came roaring 
of men’s voices, whistlings, and faint shriekings of 
women, accompanied by the rush and swirl of water. 

“What’s the matter?” shouted Dennison, picking him- 
self up from the floor of his cabin. 


98 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


“Collision, I should say!” returned Adair, out of the 
darkness. “Get your clothes on. Where’s George ?” 

“Here !” answered Fairfax. “I am standing in a pool 
of water. Our window’s smashed in — the sea’s pouring 
through the port-hole.” 

They threw on what clothes they could find, and made 
the best of their way on deck, where they at once learned 
the extent of the disaster. A large foreign steamer had 
borne down upon their vessel in the fog, making a huge 
rent in the hull, through which the water was pouring, 
and the prospect of sinking within half an hour seemed 
imminent. The foreign liner had gone on her way, as 
usual, without stopping to learn what damage she had 
done. All the passengers and crew were assembled on 
deck, the former quiet and self-possessed, the latter en- 
gaged in actively lowering the boats, and the captain was 
issuing his orders with the customary coolness of a brave 
Englishman who cares little whether his own lot be death 
or life so long as he does his duty. 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dennison, as he surveyed the 
scene, “we’re in for it! They’re beginning to fill the 
boats ; women and children first, of course. If there’s no 
room for us, we’ll have to sink or swim in grim earnest !” 

His two friends, Fairfax and Adair, looked on at the 
scene for a moment in silence. What each man thought 
within himself concerning the comfortable homes they 
had left behind cannot here be expressed — they kepl^fheir 
feelings to themselves, and merely went forward at once 
to proffer their assistance to the captain. 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


99 


“Oh, you will take care of me, Fm sure !” suddenly said 
a sweet, pleading voice behind Adair, while a face, fair 
as an angel’s, shone full upon him out of the storm and 
darkness. “I shall not be at all frightened with you !” 

Adair turned sharply round. 

“Laura !” he gasped. 

She slipped her arm through his and smiled bravely up 
at him. 

“Yes, it’s I !” she said. “You didn’t suppose I was 
going to part with you for such a long, uncertain time, 
did you ? Oh, no, darling ! How could you think it ! Are 
we going to be drowned ? I don’t mind if I stop with you 
and you hold me very tight as we go down. I’m so glad 
I came !” 

He caught her in his arms and kissed her with the fren- 
zied passion of a Romeo. Indeed, it would have been 
difficult even for a Shakespeare to depict the tragic tumult 
then raging in this “modern” husband’s soul — the love, 
joy, terror, remorse and reverence that centred round this 
delicate and beautiful creature who loved him so well that 
she was ready to confront a horrible death for his sake! 
Meanwhile a little blue-eyed woman was clinging to 
George Fairfax, sobbing and laughing together. 

“Oh, are we going to die?” she inquired, hysterically. 
“Dear George, are we going to die? Do let us keep to- 
getl^r, and poor Bibi with us ! I’ve brought Bibi !” 

“Heaven bless Bibi !” cried George, fervently, hugging 
little woman and little dog together. “Oh, my darling 


ioo “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


Belle! Who would have thought of seeing you here? 
Why did you come ?” 

“To take care of you, of course!” she replied, her blue 
eyes full of tears. “I didn’t mean to show myself till we 
got to that horrid place in Africa, where you said the 
natives die of fever and things. Oh, dear, are we to get 
into boats? I won’t go without you, George; nothing 
shall induce me !” 

“My dearest, women and children must go> first,” said 
the unhappy George. “Oh, what fools we were to leave 
England ! To think we should have brought you to this ! 
Why, there’s Mrs. Dennison !” 

There she was indeed, calm and almost smiling in the 
midst of danger. She held her husband’s arm, for bluff 
John Dennison was completely taken aback and unnerved, 
and made no attempt to hide the tears that filled his eyes 
and rolled down his cheeks. 

“It’s all my fault,” he said, huskily. “If it hadn’t been 
for me, Fairfax and Adair would never have started on 
this unlucky journey, and you dear women would not 
have got into this danger. As it is, God help us all ! I 
believe we are doomed.” 

“Oh, let us hope not,” answered Mrs. Dennison, softly 
and cheerily; “and if we are, it’s not a hard death, if we 
can only keep together. Look! there’s the captain beck- 
oning us now ; come, girls !” 

And how it happened none of them could ever%uite 
realize, but certain it is that within the next few minutes 
the Three Wise Men found themselves in a small open 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” ioi 

boat, with their three wives, rocking up and down in the 
wallowing trough of the sea, the dog Bibi being the only 
other passenger. Fortunately, the clearance of the living 
freight from the sinking steamer had been effected with 
such promptness and method that every soul on board got 
safely away before she began to heel under, and the 
pale light of morning showed the little fleet of boats rid- 
ing high on the crests of the still uproarious billows. But 
as the hours went on, and the sun rose, these boats began 
to part company, and by ten o’clock in the morning the 
little skiff containing the Three Wise Men and their fair 
partners was the only object visible on the shining expanse 
of the sea The steamer had sunk. 

Slowly and heedfully the Three pulled at their oars, and 
many a loving and anxious look did each man cast at the 
soft bundled-up figures in the stern, huddled together for 
warmth and support. All three women slept, out of sheer 
exhaustion, and the morning sunshine beamed full on the 
sweet face of the beautiful Laura, her peacefully closed 
eyelids making her look like some dreaming saint, while 
the fresh wind ruffled the bright, uncovered locks of Belle 
Fairfax, whose tiny dog, curled close against her breast, 
was not asleep, but, on the contrary, was watchfully ob- 
serving, with sharp eyes and attentively quivering nose, 
every wave that threatened to disturb his mistress’ slum- 
bers. Presently John Dennison essayed a remark. 

“They’re too good for us.” 

The silence of his friends gave tacit consent. Encour- 
aged, he offered another opinion. 


102 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


“If we drown we shall deserve it. We’ve been fools.” 

Again silence implied agreement. Then all three bent 
to the oars more earnestly, now and then turning their 
heads to scan the ocean in search of some home-returning 
ship which might offer them rescue. The sun rose higher 
and higher, the great sea sank to smoothness and turned 
to liquid gold, and at about midday Belle awoke. At first 
she looked frightened ; but, at meeting her husband’s fond 
eyes, she smiled. 

“Well, we’re not dead yet!” she said^ briskly. “But 
I’m afraid we shall soon be hungry!” 

“I’m afraid so, too!” responded George, dejectedly. 

Laura sat up just then, whereupon Mrs. Dennison 
spoke, as if she herself had not been asleep at all. 

“I have some biscuits and some brandy,” she said, in 
her bright, clear voice. “We can hold out for a little 
while on that.” 

“Of course,” said Belle; then, mournfully, “If the worst 
comes to the worst, we must eat Bibi !” 

At this a smile came on every face. Bibi himself, al- 
ways alert at the mention of his own name, seemed much 
interested at the direful proposal; and presently, despite 
anxiety and danger, they all laughed outright. 

“I’d cut off my hand and eat it rather than eat Bibi,” 
declared George, emphatically. “Besides, poor little chap, 
he would hardly be a mouthful for a hungry man.” 

“Oh, but he would be better than nothing!” said Belle, 
bravely, winking away the tears that would come at the 
thought of the possible end of her small favorite. “I 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 103 


would rather he were eaten than that anybody should 
suffer *' 

As she spoke the distant heavy throbbing of engines 
across the water was heard. Adair sprang up in the boat, 
shading his eyes from the sun. 

'‘Here comes a liner !” he cried, “bearing straight down 
upon us, by Jove! Here, let us wave something; they’re 
sure to see us!” 

Quick as thought Mrs. Dennison slipped off a dainty 
white petticoat she wore, and handed it to her husband 
to serve as a signal of distress. Tied to an oar, its lace 
frills fluttered to the breeze, and in less time than it takes 
to relate they were perceived and rescued. The vessel 
that took them on board was bound for Southampton, and 
in due time the Three Wise Men, with their wives and 
Bibi, were landed on their native shore, none the worse, 
though much the wiser, for their little experience. The 
rest of the shipwrecked passengers, together with the cap- 
tain and crew, were similarly rescued. 

About a week after their safe return to London, Mr. 
and Mrs. Dennison gave another little dinner party. The 
same number sat down to the table as before, and the 
party was composed of the same persons. It was a very 
blithe and festive gathering, indeed, and the Three Wise 
Men were much merrier than most wise men are supposed 
to be. Healths were proposed of a strange and wild char- 
acter by both the ladies and the gentlemen. 

“Here’s to Bibi!” cried George Fairfax, enthusias- 


104 


“ Three Wise Men of Gotham. ” 


tically. “Long may he hold his own as the smallest and 
prettiest of Yorkshires !” 

Loud applause ensued, accompanied by wild yapping on 
the part of the toasted canine hero, who, in due considera- 
tion of his having been shipwrecked and run the risk of 
being eaten, was on a velvet cushion within kissable dis- 
tance of his mistress. Then Mrs. Adair got up, glass in 
hand. 

‘T beg to propose the continuance of lovemaking be- 
tween husbands and wives !” she said, blushing divinely. 
“Kind words never do harm — tender nothings are more 
than learned somethings! Pretty courtesies save many 
misunderstandings ; and, coupled with my toast, I will ask 
you to drink to the womanlier and happier enlightenment 
of my friends the Pioneers P 

Amid loud clappings the toast was drunk; and, on 
silence being restored, John Dennison rose to his feet, 
and, in a voice somewhat tremulous with feeling, said : 

“My dear boys — Frank Adair and George Fairfax — I 
have only one toast to propose, the only one in my opin- 
ion worth proposing — our wives ! The dear women who 
have patiently borne with our humors ; who have allowed 
us to have our own way ; who followed us in faithful de- 
votion when out of a mere fit of spleen we left them; 
and who proved that they were ready and willing to die 
with us if death had come. We imagined they were 
faulty women, just because they endeavored to find some 
useful employment for themselves while we were wasting, 
our time at our clubs and billiard-rooms; but we have 


“Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 105 

discovered that the biggest fault we can accuse them of is 
their love for us ! My boys, we don’t deserve it, but we 
may as well try to. Any man who has won for himself 
the treasure of a good woman’s entire love, should do his 
level best to make himself as worthy of it as he can. 
We’re all lucky men ; we’ve got three of the best women 
alive to share our fortunes with us ; we behaved like fools 
in leaving them, and they behaved like angels in com- 
ing after us; and now we’re all together again, there’s 
nothing more to say, but here’s to them with all our 
hearts. Our love to them ! our devotion ! our reverence !” 

The applause here was somewhat subdued because too 
deeply felt; and Belle Fairfax was crying a little out of 
sheer happiness. Mrs. Dennison thought it was time to 
make a diversion, and rose to the occasion with her usual 
spirit. 

“John, dear !” she said, smiling at him across the table, 
“do you know when we were all in that little boat in mid- 
ocean, uncertain whether we should be rescued, or killed 
with starvation and exposure, I was irresistibly reminded 
of the old nursery jingle about the Wise Men of Gotham. 
Do you remember it? 

‘Three wise men of Gotham 
Went to sea in a bowl — 

If the bowl had been stronger! 

My song might have been longer!’ 

You know, dear, you were all so like those wonderful 
men! You went to sea — you would go to sea — in your 
own bowl of a theory! Now, if that bowl had been 


io6 “Three Wise Men of Gotham.” 


stronger, why the song might have been longer! As it 
is ” 

“It is finished/’ said John, with a smile, coming round 
from his place and openly kissing her where she sat. 
“And I defy any man to show me a better ending !” 


THE LADY WITH THE CARNATIONS. 


A DREAM OR A DELUSION? 

It was in the Louvre that I first saw her— or rather her 
picture. Greuze painted her — so I was told ; but the name 
of the artist scarcely affected me — I was absorbed in the 
woman herself, who looked at me from the dumb canvas 
with that still smile on her face, and that burning cluster 
of carnations clasped to her breast. I felt that I knew 
her. Moreover, there was a strange attraction in her eyes 
that held mine fascinated. It was as though she said, 
“Stay till I have told thee all !’’ A faint blush tinged 
her cheek — one loose tress of fair hair fell caressingly on 
her half-uncovered bosom. And, surely, was I dream- 
ing? or did I smell the odor of carnations on the air? I 
started from my reverie — a slight tremor shook my 
nerves. I turned to go. An artist carrying a large easel 
and painting materials just then approached, and, placing 
himself opposite the picture, began to copy it. I watched 
him at work for a few moments — his strokes were firm, 
and his eye accurate; but I knew, without waiting to 
observe his further progress, that there was an indefina- 
ble something in that pictured face that he with all his 
skill would never be able to delineate as Greuze had done 


108 The Lady With the Carnations. 

— if Greuze, indeed, were the painter, of which I did not 
then, and do not now, feel sure. I walked slowly away. 

On the threshold of the room I looked back. Yes! 
there it was— that fleeting, strange, appealing expression 
that seemed mutely to call to me ; that half-wild yet sweet 
smile that had a world of unuttered pathos in it. A kind 
of misgiving troubled me — a presentiment of evil that I 
could not understand — and, vexed with myself for my 
own foolish imaginings, I hastened down the broad stair- 
case that led from the picture galleries, and began to 
make my way out through that noble hall of ancient 
sculpture in which stands the defiantly beautiful “Apollo 
Belvedere” and the world-famous “Artemis.” 

The sun shone brilliantly; numbers of people were 
passing "and repassing. Suddenly my heart gave a violent 
throb, and I stopped short in my walk, amazed and in- 
credulous. Who was that seated on the bench close to the 
“Artemis,” reading? Who, if not “the Lady with the 
Carnations,” clad in white, her head slightly bent, and her 
hand clasping a bunch of her own symbolic flowers? 
Nervously I approached her. As my steps echoed on the 
marble pavement she looked up ; her gray-green eyes met 
mine in that slow, wistful smile that was so indescribably 
sad. Confused as my thoughts were, I observed her 
pallor, and the ethereal delicacy of her face and form — 
she had no hat on, and her heck and shoulders were un- 
covered. Struck by this peculiarity, I wondered if the 
other people who were passing through the hall noticed 
her deshabille. I looked around me inquiringly — not one 


The Lady With the Carnations. 109 

passerby turned a glance in our direction ! Yet surely the 
lady’s costume was strange enough to attract attention? 
A chill of horror quivered through me — was I the only 
one who saw her sitting there? 

This idea was so alarming that I uttered an involun- 
tary exclamation: the next moment the seat before me 
was empty, the strange lady had gone, and nothing re- 
mained of her but — the strong, sweet odor of the car- 
nations she had carried ! With a sort of sickness at my 
heart I hurried out of the Louvre, and was glad when 
I found myself in the bright Paris streets filled with eager, 
pressing people, all bent on their different errands of 
business or pleasure. I entered a carriage and was driven 
rapidly to the Grand Hotel, where I was staying with a 
party of friends. I refrained from speaking of the curi- 
ous sensations that had overcome me — I did not even men- 
tion the picture that had exercised so weird an influence 
upon me. The brilliancy of the life we led, the con- 
stant change and activity of our movements, soon dis- 
persed the nervous emotion I had undergone ; and though 
sometimes the remembrance of it returned to me, I avoid- 
ed dwelling on the subject. Ten or twelve days passed, 
and one night we all went to the Theatre Frangais. It 
was the first evening of my life that I ever was in the 
strange position of being witness to a play without either 
knowing its name or understanding its meaning. I could 
only realize one thing — namely, that “the Lady with the 
Carnations” 'sat in the box opposite to me, regarding me 


no The Lady With the Carnations. 

fixedly. She was alone ; her costume was unchanged. I 
addressed one of our party in a low voice: 

“Do you see that girl opposite, in white, with the shaded 
crimson carnations in her dress?” 

My friend looked, shook his head, and rejoined: 

“No; where is she sitting?” 

“Right opposite!” I repeated, in a more excited tone. 
“Surely you can see her! She is alone in that large box 
en face.” 

My friend turned to me dn wonder. “You must be 
dreaming, my dear ! That large box is perfectly empty !” 

Empty — I knew better! But I endeavored to smile; I 
said I had made a mistake — that the lady I spoke of had 
moved — and so changed the subject. But throughout 
the evening, though I feigned to watch the stage, my eyes 
were continually turning to the place where SHE sat so 
quietly, with her steadfast, mournful gaze fixed upon me. 
One addition to her costume she had — a fan — which from 
the distance at which I beheld it seemed to be made of 
very old yellow lace, mounted on sticks of filigree silver. 
She used this occasionally, waving it slowly to and fro 
in a sort of dreamy, meditative fashion; and ever and 
again she smiled that pained, patient smile which, though 
it hinted much, betrayed nothing. When we rose to leave 
the theatre “the Lady with the Carnations” rose also, and 
drawing a lace wrap about her head, she disappeared. 
Afterward I saw her gliding through one of the outer 
lobbies ; she looked so slight and frail and childlike, alone 
in the pushing, brilliant crowd, that my heart went out 


The Lady With the Carnations. 1 1 1 

to her in a sort of fantastic tenderness. “Whether she be 
a disembodied spirit, ” I mused, “or an illusion called up 
by some disorder of my own imagination, I do not know ; 
but she seems so sad that even were she a dream, I pity 
her!" 

This thought passed through my brain as in company 
with my friends I reached the outer door of the theatre. 
A touch on my arm startled me — a little white hand clasp- 
ing a cluster of carnations rested there for a second — then 
vanished. I was somewhat overcome by this new experi- 
ence ; but my sensations this time were not those of fear. 
I became certain that this haunting image followed me for 
some reason ; and I determined not to give way to any 
foolish terror concerning it, but to calmly await the course 
of events, that would in time, I felt convinced, explain 
everything. 

I stayed a fortnight longer in Paris without seeing any- 
thing more of “the Lady with the Carnations,” except 
photographs of her picture in the Louvre, one of which I 
bought — though it gave but a feeble idea of the original 
masterpiece — and then I left for Brittany. Some English 
friends of mine, Mr. and Mrs. Fairleigh, had taken up 
their abode in a quaint old rambling chateau near Quim- 
perle, on the coast of Finisterre, and they had pressed me 
cordially to stay with them for a fortnight — an invita- 
tion which I gladly accepted. The house was built on a 
lofty rock overlooking the sea ; the surrounding coast was 
eminently wild and picturesque ; and on the day I arrived 
there was a boisterous wind which lifted high the crests 


ii2 The Lady With the Carnations. 

of the billows and dashed them against the jutting crags 
with grand and terrific uproar. Mrs. Fairleigh, a bright, 
practical woman, whose life was entirely absorbed in 
household management, welcomed me with effusion. She 
and her two handsome boys, Rupert and Frank, were full 
of enthusiasm for the glories and advantages of their holi- 
day resort. 

“Such a beach !” cried Rupert, executing a sort of In- 
dian war-dance beside me on the path. 

“And such jolly walks and drives !” chorused his 
brother. 

“Yes, really !” warbled my hostess in her clear, gay 
voice. “I’m delighted we came here. And the chateau 
is such a funny old place, full of odd nooks and comers. 
The country people, you know, are dreadfully supersti- 
tious, and they say it is haunted ; but, of course, that’s all 
nonsense ! Though, if there were a ghost, we should send 
you to interrogate it, my dear!” 

This with a smile of good-natured irony at me. I 
laughed. Mrs. Fairleigh was one of those eminently sen- 
sible persons who had seriously lectured me on a book 
known as “A Romance of Two Worlds,” as inculcating 
spiritualistic theories, and therefore deserving condemna- 
tion. 

I turned the subject. 

“How long have you been here ?” I asked. 

“Three weeks — and we haven’t explored half the neigh- 
borhood yet. There are parts of the house itself we don’t 
know. Once upon a time — so the villagers say — a great 


The Lady With the Carnations. 1 1 3 

painter lived here. Well, his studio runs the whole length 
of the chateau, and that and some other rooms are locked 
up. It seems they are never let to strangers. Not that 
we want them — the place is too big for us as it is.” 

“What was the painter’s name?” I inquired, pausing 
as I ascended' the terrace to admire the grand sweep of 
the sea. 

“Oh, I forget! His pictures were so like those of 
Greuze that few can tell the difference between them — 
and ” 

I interrupted her. “Tell me,” I said, with a faint smile, 
“have you any carnations growing here ?” 

“Carnations! I should think so! The place is full of 
them. Isn’t the odor delicious?” And as we reached the 
highest terrace in front of the chateau I saw that the gar- 
den was ablaze with these brilliant, scented blossoms of 
every shade, varying from the palest salmon pink to the 
deepest scarlet. This time that subtle fragrance was not 
my fancy, and I gathered a few of the flowers to wear in 
my dress at dinner. Mr. Fairleigh now came out to re- 
ceive us, and the conversation became general. 

I was delighted with the interior of the house ; it was 
so quaint, and old, and suggestive. There was a dark 
oaken staircase, with a most curiously carved and twisted 
balustrade — some ancient tapestry still hung on the walls 
— and there were faded portraits of stiff ladies in ruffs, 
and maliciously smiling knights in armor, that depressed 
rather than decorated the dining-room. The chamber as- 
signed to me upstairs was, rather bright than otherwise — 


1 14 The Lady With the Carnations. 

it fronted the sea, and was cheerfully and prettily fur- 
nished. I noticed, however, that it was next to the shut- 
up and long-deserted studio. The garden was, as Mrs. 
Fairleigh declared, full of carnations. I never saw so 
many of these flowers growing in one spot. They seemed 
to spring up everywhere, like weeds, even in the most de- 
serted and shady corners. 

I had been at the chateau some three or four days, and 
one morning I happened to be walking alone in a sort of 
shrubbery at the back of the house, when I perceived in 
the long dank grass at my feet a large grey stone, that 
had evidently once stood upright, but had now fallen flat, 
burying itself partly in the earth. There was something 
carved upon it. I stooped down, and clearing away the 
grass and weeds, made out the words : 

“MANON 
Coeur perfide!” 

Surely this was a strange inscription! I told my dis- 
covery to the Fairleighs, and we all examined and re-ex- 
amined the mysterious slab, without being able to arrive 
at any satisfactory explanation of its pictures. Even in- 
quiries made among the villagers failed to elicit anything 
save shakes of the head, and such remarks as “Ah, mad- 
ame! si on savait!” ... or “Je crois bien qu’il y a 
tme histoire let!” 

One evening we all returned to the chateau at rather a 
later hour than usual, after a long and delightful walk 
on the beach in the mellow radiance of a glorious moon. 
When I went to my room I had no inclination to go to 


The Lady With the Carnations. 115 

bed — I was wide awake, and, moreover, in a sort of ex- 
pectant frame of mind; expectant, though I knew not 
what I expected. 

I threw my window open, leaning out and looking at 
the moon-enchanted sea, and inhaling the exquisite fra- 
grance of the carnations wafted to me on every breath 
of the night wind. I thought of many things — the glory 
of life ; the large benevolence of Nature ; the mystery of 
death ; the beauty and certainty of immortality ; and then, 
though my back was turned to the interior of my room, I 
knew — I felt I was no longer alone. I forced myself to 
move round from the window; slowly but determinedly 
I brought myself to confront whoever it was that had 
thus entered through my locked door ; and I was scarcely 
surprised when I saw “The Lady with the Carnations” 
standing at a little distance from me, with a most woe- 
begone, appealing expression on her shadowy, lovely face. 
I looked at her, resolved not to fear her, and then brought 
all my will to bear on unraveling the mystery of my 
strange visitant. As I met her gaze unflinchingly, she 
made a sort of timid gesture with her hands, as though 
she besought something. 

“Why are you here?” I asked, in a low, clear tone. 
“Why do you follow me ?” 

Again she made that little appealing movement. Her 
answer, soft as a child's whisper, floated through the 
room : 

“You pitied me!” 

“Are you unhappy?” 


ii 6 The Lady With the Carnations. 

“Very!” And here she clasped her wan, white fingers 
together in a sort of agony. I was growing nervous, but 
I continued : 

“Tell me, then, what you wish me to* do?” 

She raised her eyes in passionate supplication. 

“Pray for me ! No one has prayed for me ever since 
I died — no one has pitied me for a hundred years !” 

“How did you die?” I asked, trying to control the rapid 
beating of my heart. “The Lady with the Carnations” 
smiled most mournfully, and slowly unfastened the cluster 
of flowers from her breast — there her robe was darkly 
stained with blood. She pointed to the stain, and then 
replaced the flowers. I understood. 

“Murdered !” I whispered, more to myself than to my 
pale visitor — “murdered !” 

“No one knows, and no one prays for me !” wailed the 
faint, sweet spirit voice — “and though I am dead, I cannot 
rest. Pray for me — I am tired !” 

And her slender head drooped wearily — she seemed 
about to vanish. I conquered my rising terrors by a 
strong effort, and said : 

“Tell me — you must tell me” — here she raised her 
head, and her large, pensive eyes met mine obediently — 
“who was your murderer?” 

“He did not mean it,” she answered. “He loved me. 
It was here” — and she raised one hand and motioned to- 
ward the adjacent studio — “here he drew my picture. He 
thought me false — but I was true. * Manon , coeur per - 


The Lady With the Carnations. 117 

fide!’ Oh, no, no, no! It should be ' Manon , coeur 
iideler ” 

She paused and looked at me appealingly. Again she 
pointed to the studio. 

“Go and see !” she sighed. “Then you will pray — and 
I will never come again. Promise you will pray for me — 
it was here he killed me — and I died without a prayer.” 

“Where were you buried ?” I asked, in a hushed voice. 

“In the waves,” she murmured; “thrown in the wild, 
cold waves; and no one knew — no one ever found poor 
Manon ; alone and sad for a hundred years, with no word 
said to God for her !” 

Her face was so full of plaintive pathos that I could 
have wept. Watching her as she stood, I knelt at the 
quaint old prie-Dieu just within my reach, and prayed as 
she desired. Slowly, slowly, slowly a rapturous light 
came into her eyes ; she smiled and waved her hands to- 
ward me in farewell. She glided backward toward the 
door — and her figure grew dim and indistinct. For the 
last time she turned her now radiant countenance upon 
me, and said, in thrilling accents : 

“Write, ‘Manon, coeur Udele !”’ 

I cannot remember how the rest of the night passed, but 
I know that, with the early morning, rousing myself from 
the stupor of sleep into which I had fallen, I hurried to 
the door of the closed studio. It was ajar! I pushed it 
boldly open and entered. The room was long and lofty, 
but destitute of furniture save a battered-looking, worm- 
eaten easel that leaned up against the damp, stained wall. 


n8 The Lady With the Carnations. 

I approached this relic of the painter’s art, and, examin- 
ing it closely, perceived the name “Manon” cut roughly 
yet deeply upon it. Looking curiously about, I saw what 
had nearly escaped my notice — a sort of hanging cup-, 
board, on the left-hand side of the large, central bay-win- 
dow. I tried its handle — it was unlocked and opened 
easily. Within it lay three things — a palette, on which 
the blurring marks of long-obliterated pigments were still 
faintly visible ; a dagger, unsheathed, with its blade almost 
black with rust; and — the silver filigree sticks of a fan, 
to which clung some moldy shreds of yellow lace. I re- 
membered the fan “The Lady with the Carnations” had 
carried at the T heatre Francais, and I pieced together her 
broken story. She had been slain by her artist lover — 
slain in a sudden fit of jealousy ere the soft colors on his 
pictures of her were yet dry — murdered in this very 
studio ; and no doubt that hidden dagger was the weapon 
used. Poor Manon ! Her frail body had been cast from 
the high rock on which the chateau stood “into the wild, 
cold waves,” as she or her spirit had said ; and her cruel 
lover had carried his wrath against her so far as to per- 
petuate a slander against her by writing “Coeur perfide” 
on that imperishable block of stone! Full of pitying 
thoughts, I shut the cupboard, and slowly left the studio, 
closing the door noiselessly after me. 

That morning, as soon as I could get Mrs. Fairleigh 
alone, I told her of my adventure, beginning with the very 
first experience I had had of the picture in the Louvre. 
Needless to say, she heard me with the utmost incredulity. 


The Lady With the Carnations. 1 1 9 

“I know you, my dear !” she said, shaking her head at 
me wisely ; “you are full of fancies, and always dreaming 
about the next world, as if this one wasn’t good enough 
for you. The whole thing is a delusion.” 

“But,” I persisted, “you know the studio was shut and 
locked. How is it that it is open now ?” 

“It isn’t open !” declared Mrs. Fairleigh — “though I’m 
quite willing to believe you dreamed it was.” 

“Come and see !” I exclaimed, eagerly ; and I took her 
upstairs, though she was somewhat reluctant to follow me. 
As I had said, the studio was open. I led her in and 
showed her the name cut on the easel, and the hanging 
cupboard, with its contents. As these convincing proofs 
of my story met her eyes, she shivered a little and grew 
rather pale. 

“Come away,” she said, nervously — “you are really too 
horrid! I can’t bear this sort of thing! For goodness 
sake, keep your ghosts to yourself !” I saw she was vexed 
and pettish, and I readily followed her out of the barren, 
forlorn-looking room. Scarcely were we well outside the 
door when it shut to with a sharp click. I tried it — it was 
fast locked ! This was too much for Mrs. Fairleigh. She 
rushed downstairs in a paroxysm of terror, and when I 
found her in the breakfast-room she declared she would 
not stop another day in the house. I managed to calm 
her fears, however ; but she insisted on my remaining with 
her to brave out whatever else might happen at what she 
persisted now in calling the “haunted” chateau, in spite 
of her practical theories. And so I stayed on. And when 


120 The Lady With the Carnations. 

we left Brittany, we left together, without having had our 
peace disturbed by any more manifestations of an un- 
earthly nature. 

One thing alone troubled me a little — I should have 
liked to obliterate the word “per fide” from that stone, and 
to have had “fidele” carved on it instead; but it was too 
deeply engraved for this. However, I have seen no more 
of “The Lady with the Carnations.” But I know the dead 
need praying for — and that they often suffer for lack of 
such prayers — though I cannot pretend to explain the rea- 
son why. And I know that the picture in the Louvre is 
not a Greuze, though it is called one — it is the portrait of 
a faithful woman deeply wronged, and her name is here 
written as she told me to write it : 

“MANON 
Coeur Fidele !” 


AN OLD BUNDLE. 


“She's a reg’lar old bundle — she is; more worry than 
she’s wuth !” 

The speaker was a buxom laundress of some thirty- 
five or forty years of age, with a plump, merry face, a 
twinkling eye, and an all-round comfortable, kindly man- 
ner; and her words, though in themselves apparently 
harsh, were uttered in such a tone of genuine, if half- 
playful, affection, as robbed them of every suspicion of 
ill-humor. She was ironing out some dainty articles of 
feminine apparel profusely trimmed with lace, and though 
her attention was chiefly bent on her work, she glanced 
every now and then, with a curious mingling of wearied 
patience and keen anxiety, to the chimney corner of her 
ironing-room, where, in a large chair, propped up by a 
large pillow, sat the “old bundle” alluded to. 

“She will come in here on ironin’ days; it ain’t no good 
try in’ to prevent ’er. She can’t see a bit how the things 
is bein’ done; but she fancies she can, an’ that’s just as 
good for ’er. Lor’, now! Look at ’er, all droopin’ for- 
ward fit to break ’erself in two! Here, granny! Hold 
up!” 

And thus exclaiming, she hurried to the chair, and, with 
tender zeal, lifted the “bundle” into a better sitting pos- 
ture, thereby disclosing to view a little old woman with a 


122 


An Old Bundle. 


nut-brown, wrinkled face, like that of some well-preserved 
mummy. Two very small, very dim eyes peered up at 
her as she settled the pillow, and a weak, wheezy voice 
piped out: 

“That’s ’er ! That’s my little Betty, my youngest 
grandarter! I knows ’er — I knows ’em all — fine-grown 
boys an’ gels, for sure ! Betty, she’s a good hand at frills, 
but she can’t do ’em as I could when I was a gel. Lor’ ! 

when I was a gel — eh, dearie, dearie me ” Here the 

voice sighed away into indistinct murmurings, and ceased. 

Her “youngest grandarter” looked round with a ma- 
tronly smile. 

“That’s the way old folks alius goes on,” she observed, 
indulgently. “I ’xpect I’ll do the same if I’m ever ’er 
age. She’s a wonderful one for ’er time of life — ninety- 
five come Christmas. Such a memory as she’s got! A 
bit mixed now an’ then, but there’s a’most nothing she 
can’t remember. She was a married woman with a family 
before the Queen was crowned; an’ once she was some- 
where nigh Windsor Park an’ saw the Prince o’ Wales 
carried about as a baby. Didn’t ye, granny ?” Here she 
raised her voice to something between a shriek and a 
whistle. “Didn’t ye see the Prince o’ Wales in long 
clothes ?” 

A galvanic shock appeared to go through the “old bun- 
dle,” and two skinny hands were thrust forth tremblingly 
in the air. 

“Ay, that I did !” wheezed the weak voice again. “He 
wor the dearest little dear, as rosy as rosy— Lor’ bless his 


An Old Bundle. 


123 


'art! I seed ’im on his marriage day, too — me an’ my 
’usband ; we were a’most killed in the crowd, so we was, 
but I seed ’im, £n’ he smiled at me — so did the beautiful 
princess from Denmark; she smiled, too — just straight at 
me. It’s truth Fm tellin’ — both on ’em smiled at me just 
straight an’ pleasant like — it’s truth I’m tellin’ ” 

“No one’s doubtin’ ye, granny,” said the comely Betty, 
shaking out the ethereal-looking lace petticoat she had 
just finished, and unrolling another preparatory for fur- 
ther operations. “You were a fine, handsome woman 
still, then, worn’t ye, eh?” This with a sly wink round. 

“Ah, worn’t I, worn’t I?” screamed granny, now be- 
coming wildly excited. “You ask William what I wor! 
He’ll tell ye ! He used to say, ‘You’ll never get old, my 
dear; that’s -what it is, you’ll never get old.’ Where’s 
William? You ask ’im — he’s the man to talk o’ my 
looks; he thought a deal o’ them — he’ll tell ye. It ain’t 
for me to praise myself” — and here an odd chuckle and 
creak came from the chair, whereby it became dimly mani- 
fest that the “old bundle” was laughing — “it ain’t for me 
— you fetch ’im an’ ask ’im — he-’ll tell ye ” 

“That’s poor grandfather she’s chattering about now,” 
said Betty, very softly. “He’s been dead these twenty 
years.” 

She went on ironing, meditatively, for a few minutes, 
and then said : 

“It’s queer how some folks never get quite what they 
want in this world. Now she” — jerking her head in the 
“old bundle’s” direction — “she’s had a particular wish all 


124 


An Old Bundle. 


’er days, an’ it’s never been given to ’er — now and again 
she do harp on it till she wears a body out. In all ’er 
terrible long life she’s never seen the Queen, an’ that’s 
’er craziness. She takes it awful badly. We’ve tried 
all we know to manage it for ’er, an’ it seems as if there 
was a fate against it. She could never manage it for 
’erself when she was well an’ strong, an’ now it’s more 
’ard than ever. We took ’er with us on Jubilee Day, an’ 
she began to cry at the sight of the crowd, an’ got nervous 
like; then we took ’er when the Imperial Institute was 
opened, an’ that worn’t no use, neither ; she was too feeble 
to stand the pushing an’ scrambling. We’ve done our 
best, but something alius comes in the way, so I expect 
it’s no good trying any more.” 

At that moment granny lifted herself up with a good 
deal of energy and peered at the ironing-board. 

“What are ye doin’ with them frills?” she demanded. 
“You ain’t ’arf a hand at them. When I was a gel, I 
could do frills fit for the Queen to wear. Ah ! she must 
be a fine leddy, the Queen of England, with ’er gold 
crown on ’er head an’ ’er great jewels on ’er breast; an’ 
’er grand robes all round an’ about ’er, an’ trailing yards 
on the ground. Eh, dearie, dearie, dearie me !” — and she 
shook a sort of eldritch wail out of herself. “I’ll never 
be at peace till I see ’er — never ! I’ve seen the Prince of 

Wales many a time, God bless ’im ! — an’ the princess 

an’ they’ve smiled at me— but Lor’ ! the Queen is like the 
Lord Almighty — we’ve got to believe in ’er without seein’ 


An Old Bundle. 


125 


Her granddaughter looked gravely shocked. 

“Lor’, granny, you shouldn’t talk so — it sounds as 
blasphemous as if ye were in church/’ she said, with a 
most curious irrelevance. “I’m just surprised at you — a 
decent, God-fearing body like yourself. Surely there’s no 
such need for us to see the Queen ; it’s enough to know 
that she’s there.” 

“ ’Taint !” shrieked the “old bundle” vehemently. 
“ ’Tain’t, I tell ye! She’s there, is she? Where? 
Where is she, ye silly gel? Don’t make me a fool nor 
yourself, neither ! Where is she ?” 

“Why, granny, in ’er palaces, for sure !” replied Betty, 
soothingly. 

“Don’t she never come out o’ them palaces ?” expostu- 
lated granny, getting shriller and shriller. “Don’t she 
never take no air? Then it’s a shame to the country to 
let ’er be stifled up an’ hidden away from the people who 
would love to see ’er with ’er robes an’ crown on ’er ’ead, 
poor, pretty dear! I call it just disgraceful, I do! Get 
’er out of it — yes, you tell William what I say ; the coun- 
try ain’t got no business to keep ’er shut up, first in one 
prison an’ then another — an’ I tell ye, Betty, there’s some- 
thing very queer about the way they send ’er to Scotland 
for such a long time — ’tain’t right, Betty ! — you mark my 
words, ’tain’t right ! — it’s a plot to keep ’er away from us, 
you see if it ain’t! Lor’! she’s a young woman yet — 
just lost ’er ’usband, too! it’s ’ard on ’er to shut ’er up — • 
it’s powerful ’ard ” 

Here granny sank back exhausted, her withered head 


126 An Old Bundle. 

shaking- to and fro involuntarily with the violence of her 
emotions. 

‘‘Lor’ ! bless 'er 'art !" cried Betty, running to her, and 
tenderly caressing what now truly appeared to be noth- 
ing but a sunken heap of clothes. “How she do mix up 
things, to be sure ! She can't get 'em right nohow. She 
ain’t forgotten nothing, an' yet she can’t sort 'em straight. 
Hullo, granny ! Lord love 'er ! If she ain’t cryin’ now !” 

“They ain’t got no right," whimpered granny, dolefully, 
burying her wrinkles in her granddaughter’s ample 
bosom, “to shut up the Queen. Let us 'ave a look at her, 
I say — we all loves 'er, and we’ll 'arten ’er up a bit " 

“Don’t you worrit, granny,’’ said the buxom Betty, con- 
solingly. “She isn’t shut up — don’t you think it! She 
can go out whenever she likes.’’ 

“Can she?’’ And the “old bundle’’ lifted her tear- 
stained, aged face, with a faint hope expressed upon it. 

“Ah, well, if it’s the truth you're speakin’, I’m glad to 
’ear it. I’m glad and thankful she can come out o’ them 
palaces. But I never seen 'er, an’ I wish — I wish’’ — 
here came a prolonged and dismal snuffle — “I wish I 
could see 'er with my own eyes afore’’ — a long pause — 
“afore I die.’’ 

The poor “old bundle’’ was by this time completely 
done up, and meekly submitted to be put comfortably back 
on her pillow, where in a few minutes she was sound 
asleep. The kind-hearted Betty resumed her ironing, 
and, glancing up once wistfully at the interested visitor 
who had witnessed the little scene, remarked: 


An Old Bundle. 


127 

“It do seem a pity that she can’t ’ave what she wants ! 
She won’t last long !” 

The visitor agreed sympathetically, and presently with- 
drew. 

It was then the “season” in town, and in due course it 
was announced in the papers that the Queen would visit 
London on a certain day to hold a special “drawing- 
room,” returning to Windsor the next afternoon. Betty 
was told of this, and was also informed that if she got a 
bath-chair for her “old bundle,” and started early, a 
friendly constable would see that she was properly placed 
outside Buckingham Palace in order to view the Queen 
as she drove by on her arrival from the station, and be- 
fore the carriages for the drawing-room commenced to 
block the thoroughfare. There would, of course, be a 
crowd, but the English crowd being the best-natured in 
the world, and invariably kind to aged persons and little 
children, no danger to “Granny” need be anticipated. 
The joy of the old lady, when she was told of the treat in 
store for her, was extreme, though her great age and 
frail health made her nervous, and filled her with fears 
lest again she should be disappointed of her one desire. 

“Are you sure I shall see the Queen, Betty ?” she asked, 
twenty times a day. “Is there no mistake about it this 
time? I shall really see ’er; ’er own darling self? God 
bless ’er!” 

“Quite sure, granny!” responded the cheery Betty. 
“You’ll be just at the palace gates, an’ you can’t help 


128 


An Old Bundle. 


seeing ’er. An’ I shouldn’t wonder if she smiled at you, 
like the Prince o’ Wales!” 

This set the “old bundle” off into a fit of chuckles, and 
kept her happy for hours. 

“Like the Prince o’ Wales !” she mumbled ; then nod- 
ding to herself mysteriously: “Ah, he do smile kind! 
Everybody knows that. He do smile !” 

The eventful morning at last arrived, ushered in by the 
usual “Queen weather” — bright sunshine and cloudless 
skies. The “old bundle” was wrapped up tenderly and 
carried into a comfortable bath-chair, wheeled by an ex- 
cessively sympathetic man, with an extremely red face, 
who entered con amore into the spirit of the thing. 

“A rare fine old lady she be,” he remarked, as he fas- 
tened the leather apron across his vehicle. “Ninety-five ! 
Lord bless me ! I hope I’ll have as merry an eye as she 
has when I’m her age ! See the Queen? To be sure she 
shall; and as close as I can manage it. Come along, 
mother!” And off he trotted with his charge, Betty 
bringing up the rear, and enjoying to the full the fresh 
beauty of the fine sunny spring morning. 

Outside Buckingham Palace a crowd had commenced 
to gather, and a line of mounted soldiery kept the road 
clear. Betty looked around anxiously. Where was the 
friendly constable ? Ah, there he was, brisk and business- 
like, though wearing a slightly puzzled air. He joined 
her at once and shook hands with her, then bent kindly 
toward the aged granny. 

“Lovely morning, mother,” he said, patting the mit- 


An Old Bundle. 129 

tened hand that lay trembling a little on the apron of the 
bath-chair. “Do you a world of good.” 

“Yes, yes,” murmured the old woman; “an" the 
Queen?” 

“Oh, she’s coming,” returned the “Bobby,” looking 
about him in various directions; “we expect her every 
minute.” 

“The fact is,” he added, in an aside to Betty, “I can’t 
rightly tell which gate of the palace Her Majesty will 
enter by. You see, both are guarded; the crowd keeps 
to this one principally just about where we are, so I 
suppose it will be this one ; but I couldn’t say for certain. 
It is generally this one.” 

“Is it?” said Betty, her heart sinking a little. “Shall 
granny be placed here then ?” 

“Yes, you can wheel her as far as here;” and he desig- 
nated the situation. “If the Queen drives in by this gate, 
she will pass quite close ; if she goes by the other, well — 
it can’t be helped.” 

“Oh, surely she won’t!” exclaimed the sensitive Betty. 
“It would be such a disappointment !” 

“Well, you see, her Majesty doesn’t know that ” 

began the constable, with an indulgent smile. 

“But the crowd is here — outside this gate,” persisted 
Betty. 

“That’s just why she may go in at the other,” said the 
guardian of the peace, thoughtfully. “You see, the Queen 
can’t abear a crowd.” 


130 An Old Bundle. 

“Not of ’er own subjects?” asked Betty, “when they 
love ’er so?” 

“Bobby” discreetly made no answer. He was busy in- 
structing the man who wheeled the bath-chair to place it 
in a position where there would be no chance of its being 
ordered out of the way. Once installed near the Palace 
gates, the “old bundle” perked her weazened head briskly 
out of her wrappings and gazed about her with the most 
lively interest. Her aged eyes sparkled ; her poor wrinkled 
face had a tinge of color in it, and something like an air 
of juvenility pervaded her aspect. She was perfectly de- 
lighted with all her surroundings, and the subdued mur- 
mur of the patiently waiting crowd was music to her ears. 

“Ain’t it a lovely day, Betty ?” she said, in her pip;ing, 
tremulous voice. “And ain’t there a lot of nice, good- 
looking people about ?” 

Betty nodded. There was no denying the fact. There 
were “nice-looking” people about — an English crowd: re- 
spectfully waiting to see their sovereign is mostly com- 
posed of such. Honest, hard workers are among them, 
men of toil, women of patience, and all loyal to the back- 
bone — loyal, loving and large-hearted, and wishful to see 
their Queen and Empress, and cheer her with all the 
might of wholesome English lungs as she passes them by. 

“It’s lucky it’s a fine day,” said a man standing close to 
Betty, “else we shouldn’t see the Queen at all — she’d be 
in a closed carriage.” 

“She won’t be in one to-day,” said Betty, confidently. 

“I don’t think so. She may. Let’s hope not !” 


An Old Bundle. 


131 

Again Betty's faithful heart felt an anxious thrill, and 
she glanced nervously at her “old bundle." That vener- 
able personage was sitting up quite erectly for her, and 
seemed to have got some of her youth back again in the 
sheer excitement of hope and expectation. Presently 
there was a stir among the people, and the sound of 
horses' hoofs approaching at a rapid trot. 

“Here she comes !" exclaimed the bath-chair attendant, 
somewhat excitedly, and Betty sprang to her grandmoth- 
er’s side. 

“Here she comes, granny ! Here comes the Queen !" 

With an access of superhuman energy, the old woman 
lifted herself in the chair, and her eyes glittered out of 
her head with a falcon-like eagerness. Nearer and 
nearer came the measured trot of the horses; a murmur 
of cheering rose from the outskirts of the crowd. Betty 
strained her eyes anxiously to catch the first glimpse of 
the royal equippage, then — she shut them again with a 
dizzy sense of utter desolation — it was a closed vehicle, 
and not the smallest glimpse could be obtained of Eng- 
land's Majesty. The Queen, no doubt fatigued, set far 
back in the carriage, and never once looked out. The 
horses turned in at the very gate near which the “old 
bundle" waited, alert — and in an almost breathless sus- 
pense — trotted past and were gone. 

“We must go now, granny," said Betty, the tears rising 
in her throat. “It’s all over." 

The old woman turned upon her fiercely, 


132 


An Old Bundle. 


“What’s all over?” she demanded, quaveringly. “Ain’t 
I come here to see the Queen ?” 

“Well, you’ve seen ’er,” answered Betty, with an accent 
of bitterness which she could not help, poor soul. “You’ve 
seen all anybody else has seen. That was ’er in that car- 
riage.” 

Granny stared in vague perplexity. 

“In the carriage?” she faltered. “That was ’er? Who? 
Who? Where? There worn’t nothin’ to see — no- 
body ” 

“Get home, mother; you’ll get mixed up in the crowd 
if you don’t. We’ll be having all the carriages along for 
the drawing-room presently,” said the friendly constable, 
kindly. “The Queen’s in the palace by now.” 

At this the poor old dame stretched out her trembling 
hands toward the palace walls. 

“Shut up again !” she wailed. “Poor dear — poor dear ! 
Lord help ye in your greatness, my lovey ! God bless ye ! 
I’d ’a’ given the world to see your face just once — just 
once — eh, dearie, dearie, dearie me ! It’s a cruel day, an’ 
I’m very cold — very cold — I shall never see — the Queen, 
now !” 

The constable gave a startled glance at Betty, and 
sprang to the side of the bath-chair. 

“What, what, mother ! Hold up a bit !” he said. “Here, 
Betty — I say — be quick!” 

Two or three bystanders clustered hurriedly round, 
while Betty caught the drooping, venerable head, and, 
laying it against her bosom, burst out crying. 


An Old Bundle. 


133 


“Oh, granny, granny dear !” 

But “granny” was dead. Betty's “old bundle” had 
been suddenly moved out of her way, leaving empty deso- 
lation behind and an empty corner never to be filled. 
Some of the crowd, hearing what had chanced, whispered 
one to another : 

“Poor old soul ! She wanted to see the Queen just once 
before she died. She’d never seen her, they say. Ah, 
well, the Queen has a rare, kind heart — she’d be sorry if 
she knew.” 

And there was many a wistful, upward glance at the 
windows of the Palace, as the “old bundle” was reverently 
covered and borne home, giving place to the daintier bur- 
dens of rich-robed beauty and jewels brought freely to 
“see the Queen” on Drawing-room day. 


MADEMOISELLE ZEPHYR. 


A vision of loveliness? A dream of beauty? Yes, she 
was all this and more. She was the very embodiment of 
ethereal grace and dainty delicacy. The first time I saw 
her she was queen of a fairy revel. Her hands grasped 
a sceptre so light and sparkling that it looked like a 
rod of moonbeams; her tiny waist was encircled by a 
garland of moss-rosebuds, glittering with dew, and a 
crown of stars encircled her fair, white brow. Innocent 
as a snowflake she looked, with her sweet, serious eyes 
and falling golden hair; yet she was “Mademoiselle 
Zephyr” — a mere danseuse on the stage of a great and 
successful theatre — an actress whose gestures were sim- 
ple and unaffected, and, therefore, perfectly fascinating, 
and whose trustful smile at the huge audience that nightly 
applauded her efforts startled sudden tears out of many a 
mother’s eye, and caused many a fond father’s heart to 
grow heavy with foreboding pity. For “Mademoiselle 
Zephyr” was only six years old ! Only six summers had 
gilded the “refined gold” of the little head that now wore 
its wreath of tinsel stars; and scarcely had the delicate 
young limbs learned their use than they were twisted, 
tortured and cramped in all those painful positions so bit- 
terly known to students of the “ballet.” 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 135 

“A very promising child,” the wealthy manager of the 
theatre had said, noticing her on one of the “training” 
days, and observing with pleasure the grace with which 
“Mademoiselle” lifted her tiny, rounded arms above her 
head, and pointed her miniature foot in all the approved 
methods, while she smiled up into his big, fat face with all 
the fearless confidence of her age and sex. 

And so the “promising child” advanced step by step in 
her profession, till here she was, promoted to the honor of 
being announced, on the great, staring placards outside 
the theatre as “Mademoiselle Zephyr,” the “Wonderful 
Child-Dancer!” and, what was dearer far to her simple 
little soul, she was given the part of the “Fairy Queen” 
in the grand Christmas pantomime of that year — a role in 
which it was her pride and pleasure to be able to summon 
elves, gnomes, witches and flower-sprites with one wave 
of her magic wand. And she did it well, too ; never could 
wand or sceptre sway with prettier dignity or sweeter 
gravity; never did high commands issuing from the lips 
of mighty potentates sound so quaintly effective as “Mad- 
emoiselle Zephyr’s” tremendous utterance : 

“You naughty elves! begone to yon dark wood! 

You’ll all be punished if you are not dood!” 

This word “dood” pronounced with almost tragic em- 
phasis in the clearest of baby voices, was perhaps one of 
the greatest “hits” in Mademoiselle’s small repertoire of 
“effects though I think the little song she sang by her- 
self in the third act was the culminating point of pathos 
after all. The scene was the “Fairies Forest by Moon- 


136 Mademoiselle Zephyr. 

light,” and there “Mademoiselle Zephyr” danced a pas , 
senl round a giant mushroom, with stage moonbeams 
playing upon her fair curls in a very picturesque manner. 
Then came the song — the orchestra was hushed down to 
the utmost softness in order not to drown the little notes 
of the tiny voice that warbled so falteringly, yet so plain- 
tively, the refrain : 

“I see the light of the burning day 
Shine on the hill-tops far away, 

And gleam on the rippling river,— 

Follow me, fairies! follow me soon, 

Back to my palace behind the moon, 

Where I reign for ever and ever!” 

A burst of the heartiest applause always rewarded this 
vooal effort on the part of little “Mademoiselle,” who re- 
plied to it by graciously kissing her small hands to her 
appreciative audience; and then she entered with due 
gravity on the most serious piece of professional work she 
had to do in the whole course of the evening. This was 
her grand dance — a dance she had been trained and tor- 
tured into by an active and energetic French ballet- 
mistress, who certainly had every reason to be proud of 
her tiny pupil. “Mademoiselle Zephyr” skimmed the 
boards as lightly as a swallow. She leaped and sprang 
from point to point like a bright rosebud tossing in the 
air. She performed the most wonderful evolutions, always 
with the utmost grace and agility; and the final attitude 
in which she posed her little form at the conclusion of the 
dance was so artistic, and withal so winsome and fasci- 
nating, that a positive roar of admiration and wonder- 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 137 

ment greeted her as the curtain fell. Poor little mite! 
My heart was full of pity as I left the theatre that night, 
for to give a child of that age the capricious applause of 
the public instead of the tender nurture and fostering 
protection of a mother’s arms, seemed to me both cruel 
and tragic. 

Some weeks elapsed, and the flitting figure and wist- 
ful little face of “Mademoiselle Zephyr” still haunted me, 
till at last, with the usual impetuosity that characterizes 
many of my sex, I wrote to the manager of the theatre 
that boasted the “Wonderful Child-Dancer,” and, frankly 
giving my name and a few other particulars, I asked him 
if he could tell me anything of the “Zephyr’s” parentage 
and history. I waited some days before an answer came ; 
but at last I received a very courteous letter from the man- 
ager in question, who assured me that I was not alone 
in the interest the talented child had awakened, but that 
he had reason to fear that the promise she showed thus 
early would be blighter by the extreme delicacy of her 
constitution. He added en passant that he himself was 
considerably out of pocket by the “Zephyr’s” capricious 
health ; that she had now been absent from the boards 
of his theatre for nearly a week ; that on making inquiries 
he had learned that the child was ill in bed and unable to 
rise, and that he had perforce stopped her salary, and 
provided a substitute, an older girl not nearly so talented, 
who gave him a great deal of trouble and vexation. He 
furthermore mentioned in a postscript that the “Zephyr’s” 
real name was Winifred M , that she was the daugh- 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 


138 

ter of a broken-down writer of libretti, and that her 
mother was dead, her only female relative being an elder 
sister, whose character was far from reputable. He gave 
me the “Zephyr’s” address, a bad street in a bad neigh- 
borhood ; and assuring me that it was much better not to 
concern myself at all with the matter, .he concluded his 
letter. His advice was sensible enough, and yet some- 
how I could not obey it. It is certainly a worldly-wise 
and safe course to follow, that of never inquiring into 
the fates of your unfortunate fellow-voyagers across the 
tempestuous sea of life ; it saves trouble, it prevents your 
own feelings from being harrowed, and it is altogether a 
comfortable doctrine. But the sweet, plaintive voice of 
the “Zephyr” haunted my ears; the serious child-face, 
with its frame of golden curls, got into my dreams at 
night, and at last I made up my mind to go, accompanied 
by a friend, to that questionable street, in a still more 
questionable neighborhood, and make inquiries after the 
“Zephyr’s” health. After some trouble, I found the dirty 
lodging-house to which I had been directed, and stum- 
bling up a very dark, rickety flight of stairs, I knocked at 

a door, and asked if “Miss M ” was at home. The 

door was flung suddenly wide open, and a pretty girl of 
some seventeen years of age, with a quantity of fair hair 
falling loosely over her shoulders, and large blue eyes 
that looked heavy and tear-swollen, demanded in a some- 
what hardened tone of voice, “Well; what do you want?” 
My companion answered, “A lady has come to know how 
your little sister is — the one that acts at the theatre.” I 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 139 

then stepped forward and added, as gently as I could, “I 

heard from Mr. , the manager, that the child was 

ill; is she better ?” 

The girl looked at me steadily, without replying. Then 
suddenly, as if with an effort, she said, “Come in.” We 
passed into a dark and dirty room, ill-smelling, ill-ven- 
tilated, and scarcely furnished at all; and while I was 
trying to distinguish the objects in it, I heard the sound 
of a feeble singing. Could it be the “Zephyr’s” voice that 
sounded so far away, so faint and gasping? I listened, 
and my eyes filled unconsciously with tears. I recog- 
nized the tune and the refrain: 

“Follow me, fairies! follow me soon 
Back to my palace behind the moon, 

Where I reign for ever and ever!” 

“Where is she?” I asked, turning to the fair-haired 
girl, who stood still, regarding me half-wistfully, half- 
defiantly. She nodded her head toward a corner of the 
room, a corner which, though very dark, was still shel- 
tered from any draught from either window or door ; and 
there, on a miserable pallet bed, lay the poor little “Fairy 
Queen,” tossing from side to side restlessly, her azure 
eyes wide open and glittering with feverish trouble, her 
lovely silken hair tangled and lustreless, and her tiny 
hands clenching and unclenching themselves mechanically 
and almost fiercely. But as she tossed about on her mis- 
erable pillow, she sang unceasingly, if such a feeble wail- 
ing might be called singing. I turned from the heart- 
rending sight to the elder girl, who, without waiting to be 
asked, said, abruptly: “She has got brain fever. The 


140 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 


doctor says she cannot live over to-morrow. It’s all been 
brought on through overwork, and excitement, and bad 
food. I can’t help it. I know she has never had enough 
to eat. I am often half-starved myself. Father drinks 
up every penny that we earn. It's a good thing, I think, 
that Winnie will get out of it all soon. I wish I were 
dead myself, that I do !” And here the hardened look on 
the pretty face suddenly melted, the defiant flash in the 
eyes softened, and, flinging herself down by the little 
pallet, she broke into a passion of sobs and tears, crying 
out, “Poor Winnie — poor little Winnie !” 

I prefer to pass over the remainder of this scene in 
silence. Suffice it to say that I did what I could to allevi- 
ate the physical sufferings of poor little “Zephyr” and her 
unfortunate sister; and, before leaving, I earnestly en- 
treated the now quite softened and still sobbing elder girl 
to let me know whether her sister grew better or worse. 
This she promised to do, and, leaving my name and ad- 
dress, I kissed the hot little forehead of the fallen “Fairy 
Queen,” and took my departure. The next morning I 
heard that the child was dead. She had died in the night, 
and with her last fluttering breath she had tried to sing 
her little fairy song. And so the human “Zephyr” had 
floated away from the stage of this life, where fairyland 
is only the dream of poets, to the unknown country — to 
the — 


“Island valley of Avilion, 
Where never wind blows loudly.” 


Thinking of her as I write, I almost fancy I see a deli- 


141 


Mademoiselle Zephyr. 

cate sprite on rainbow pinions flitting past me ; I almost 
hear the sweet child-voice, rendered powerful and pure 
by the breath of immortality, singing, softly — 

“Follow me soon 

Back to my palace behind the moon, 

Where I reign for ever and ever!” 

And who shall assert that she does not reign in some 
distant glorified region — the little queen of a chosen court 
of child-angels for whom this present world was too hard 
and sorrowful? 


ONE OF THE WORLD’S WONDERS. 


There is something not exactly high-class in the 
name of Margate. Sixpenny teas are suggested, and a 
vulgar flavor of shrimps floats unbidden in the air, while 
the looming figures of Jemima and her ever-present ’Arry 
obtrude themselves on the mind in spite of our best efiforts 
to believe that Margate may be a very charming place, 
as its air is certainly remarkable for bracing and invig- 
orating the system. 

But there is something at Margate besides the air, the 
sands, and the sea; something that calls for recognition 
from students, antiquarians, lovers of romance, and 
savants of all classes and nations; something that, just 
because it is at plebeian Margate, has escaped the proper 
notice and admiration it so strongly deserves. If the curi- 
ous and beautiful subterranean temple, of which I am 
about to speak, existed anywhere but at Margate, it would 
certainly be acknowledged as one of the wonders of the 
world, which it undoubtedly is. Thousands of people go 
annually to Margate, and come away again, without 
knowing of its existence. I have asked residents at Mar- 
gate about it, and found them perfectly ignorant of its 
whereabouts, and I have been instrumental in sending 
them to see what they may be more reasonably proud of 


One of the World’s Wonders. 143 

than anything in or about their town ; namely, the mag- 
nificent and wonderful piece of ancient workmanship 
known as the “Shell Grotto.” 

To begin with, this name is a mistake. The whole 
management of the place is a mistake. When a man 
meets you at the corner of the pier and puts a badly 
printed fly-leaf in your hand with the words “Go 
and see the Grotto” upon it, you naturally believe that it 
is the advertisement of a place built out of oyster-shells, 
where you can have tea and shrimps ad libitum; and you 
immediately set yourself against such allurements, pre- 
ferring to be in the fresh salt air, and roam at your pleas- 
ure by the sea. It was the merest chance in the world 
that persuaded me to see this “Grotto.” I was crumpling 
the fly-leaf advertisement in my hand, about to throw it 
away, when some words in small print caught my eye. 
They were, “Two thousand square feet of shell-work.” 
This aroused my curiosity, for I thought that even two 
thousand feet of oyster-shells would be worth looking 
at. So I turned to the man who had given me the adver- 
tisement, and said: “Where is this Grotto?” 

He was a pale, hungry-looking individual, and had a 
monotonous way of speaking, which probably arose out 
of a long and bitter experience of trying to persuade peo- 
ple to “go and see the Grotto” who wouldn’t go. 

“Up on the Dane,” he replied. 

“Where is the Dane?” 

“Right through the town. You can’t miss it.” And 


144 One of the World’s Wonders. 

he turned a filmy eye upon me with a show of interest. 
“Are you going to see it ?” 

“Yes, I think so. Is it something you have built up 
there ?” 

The man broke into a hoarse laugh. 

“I built it! Lor’ bless yer ’art, it’s been there no one 
knows how long! You’d be a clever one if you could 
tell who built it. I don’t know nothink about it, no more 
don’t any one else that I ever heerd on.” 

I was now fairly interested in the matter, and lost no 
time in walking to the “Dane.” My way lay right 
through the town, in and out some very dirty streets, 
smelling strongly of fish and tar, and then up a slight 
eminence. This eminence was the “Dane,” called so for 
reasons that must be left to antiquarians to decide; and 
the third turning to the left was marked “To the Grotto.” 
It was quite a quarter of an hour’s walk from the pier, 
which is perhaps one of the reasons why so few excur- 
sionists seem to know anything about the place ; and those 
few who have seen it, have no idea of its value as an anti- 
quary, apart from its extreme beauty. My expectations 
were at first somewhat disappointed when, following the 
way indicated “To the Grotto,” it led me to an unpretend- 
ing little house, with flowers in the front yard, and a bill 
in the window which said, “Tea provided.” “Perhaps,” 
thought I, “it is only a catch-penny after all,” and I 
looked suspiciously at a hanging board on which was 
printed, “Visitors to the Grotto are requested to ring the 
bell.” 


One of the World’s Wonders. 145 

I hesitated a moment, but finally rang, and prepared 
myself for some carefully constructed piece of humbug. 
The door was opened by a cheery-looking woman, to 
whom I said, “Can I see the Grotto?” 

“Certainly,” she replied. “If you will go down those 
three little steps to the right, my daughter will bring you 
a light and show you the way.” 

“Is it underground?” I asked, with some surprise. 

“Oh yes,” she said, smiling affably, “quite under- 
ground.” 

And then she disappeared, shutting her door. She evi- 
dently had no intention of proposing a shrimp tea, so I 
descended the steps indicated and found a closed door, 
which, however, was speedily opened by a fresh-faced, 
intelligent-looking girl, who invited me in and then pro- 
ceeded to light a wax taper. The little room in which I 
found myself was a kind of shop, where views of Mar- 
gate, shells, baskets and other trifles were on sale ; among 
other things, photographs of the “Grotto” I had come to 
see. I examined one of these with increasing wonder. 
“Is it really like this?” I exclaimed. “Not possible !” 

“Oh, it is much better than that,” said the girl, smiling. 
“You see, it is difficult to take a good photograph of the 
place, as it is so dark. If you will come this way, please, 
I will light the gas as we go.” 

And, with lighted taper in hand, she went down a flight 
of rough stone steps, I following her, and in a minute we 
were in the subterranean tempile, miscalled a Grotto, and 
which, as my guide lit the gas all along it, proved to be 


146 One of the World’s Wonders. 

one of the most beautiful, fantastic and interesting relics 
of the ancient days that exist in England or anywhere 
else. I had expected nothing like it. I had no idea there 
was such a place to be seen anywhere, least of all in Mar- 
gate, and I was fairly bewildered at the fine architecture 
and artistic proportions of the beautiful temple in which 
I stood. It is spaciously and mathematically planned ; a 
long, winding passage, with exquisitely designed arch- 
ways here and there, leads to the culminating point, a 
square room, with the fragments of an altar at each end. 
An enormous column, as thick and as handsomely round- 
ed as the centre column in Roslin Chapel, supports the 
roof; but the wonder of it all, apart from its architectural 
construction, is that the walls, the centre column, and 
the altars, are covered with shell panels, designed by the 
brain and worked by the hand of man, evfery panel dif- 
ferent in design, and all beautifully executed. Here a 
sunflower, with leaves and buds, all exquisitely worked 
out in shells of different form and size, covers one panel ; 
next to it, a rising sun surrounded with triangles, stars 
and crescents. One particularly beautiful panel has upon 
it a full-blown rose with leaves, thorns and buds, all 
perfect. Two hearts, one within the other, a sword or 
dagger half drawn from its hilt, a star-fish, rings en- 
twined, and all sorts of emblematical signs, form centres 
for these wonderful shell panels, each panel having a 
different and more or less elaborate border. The great 
centre column is a perfect marvel of shell-work, some 
portions of it being as finely worked as Florentine mosaic. 


One of the World’s Wonders. 


147 


The shells used are the usual ones found on the seashore, 
aftd are bedded in common clay. Utterly unprepared as 
I was for such a marvel of art and beauty, I said to my 
guide : 

“What is the history of this wonderful place? Does 
any one know anything about it ?” 

“Very little is known,” said the girl. “It was first 
discovered in 1834. The foundations for a school were 
being laid just above here, and one of the workmen let 
his spade fall. To his surprise, it dropped through a 
hole and disappeared. A small boy was then let down 
through the hole to look after the spade, and when he 
got to the bottom he found himself just close to the 
centre column of the Grotto. Afterwards the entrance 
was found, and cleared of stones and rubbish, so that 
people could walk through. The piece of land on which 
it is has always been private property, and the lady to 
whom it now belongs allows us to live here for a small 
rental and make what we can by showing the Grotto, as 
long as we take good care of it. She had the gas laid on 
all through the place as it is now. A great many people 
who have seen it have said it ought to be written about 
in the papers, but no one has taken any particular notice 
of it yet.” 

On farther inquiry, I heard that Frank Buckland, the 
naturalist, had paid many visits to the cave, purposing to 
write a book about it, had not untimely death put an end 
to his useful labors. His theory was that all the shells 
used in the ornamentation of the place must have been 


148 One of the World’s Wonders. 

taken alive — that is, with fish in them — or they could 
not have remained in the wonderful state of preservation 
in which they now are. This is, however, a difficult 
question, which only profound conchologists can deter- 
mine. 

The square room at the end of the beautiful vaulted 
passage looks as if intended for a place of worship, though 
the Christian emblem of the cross is nowhere to be seen. 
The walls here are richly emblazoned with designs in 
shells of the sun; the sun rising, setting, and in the full 
splendor of all his rays; these rays exquisitely worked 
in the minutest shells, some of them so small that one 
needs a microscope to judge the amount of patience, 
thought and skill bestowed on their arrangement. On 
some of the panels in this room, too, are worked urns or 
vases of primitive shape, from which flames are 
depicted ascending. Tapping the middle panel at the 
end of this chamber, I found that it sounded hollow. I 
suggested to my guide that it might be well to make some 
excavations there ; she agreed, but averred that the pres- 
ent owner of the property would never allow it. 

Wandering slowly back through the beautiful vaulted 
passages, I noticed at the top of one of the arches the 
small figure of a man in a sitting posture, carved out of 
one stone. The arms are tightly folded, the head is gone ; 
but, judging from the position of the body, the head had 
evidently turned downwards so that the chin rested on 
the breast. 

Full of curiosity and surprise, I turned back once more 


One of the World’s Wonders. 149 

to look at the whole effect of this almost unrecognized 
memento of the past, and noticed how marvelously the 
designs harmonized together, the different colors and 
shapes of the shells blending so that from the foot of the 
steps that led into it, as far as the eye could see, it looked 
like a miniature chapel ornamented with the finest mosaic 
work. It is difficult to guess for what purpose it could 
have been built. It is certainly not a Christian temple; 
nor is it Druidical, as the Druids never worshiped under- 
ground, but on hills and in forests. It is more likely to 
be a relic of Scandinavian mythology; it is suggestive 
of the sea, and may have been a burial-place of the 
Vikings, though it is generally believed that these bold 
riders of the waves preferred to let their lifeless bodies 
drift out to sea in ships and sink in the “cold, populous 
graves” of the ocean they loved so well, rather than be 
laid in the damp and wormy earth. 

Whatever it be, the Shell Grotto at Margate deserves 
a better name and wider fame, and so it will prove when 
antiquarians and scholars shall have given it proper con- 
sideration, and have freed it from its present common 
surroundings. Sixpence for seeing so beautiful and 
extraordinary a place seems an absurdly small sum, con- 
sidering what “guides,” as a rule, charge for showing 
sights not half so interesting ; yet that humble silver coin 
is the only key required to unlock the wonders of a palace 
almost as beautiful as one of the scenes in Hans Christian 
Andersen's “Little Mermaid.” 


150 One of the World’s Wonders. 

Before leaving, I asked the gentle and obliging damsel 
of the Grotto if many people visited the place. 

“Sometimes a great many,” she replied; “but they just 
scramble through, and never ask any questions. I don’t 
suppose they stop to think whether it is an old relic or 
a modern building. Some of the roughs try to pick the 
shells out and destroy the panels. We have to watch very 
carefully to prevent mischief being done.” 

She showed me one place where the ruthless fingers of 
some particularly destructive ’Arry had broken away the 
centre petals of a rose, and I was able to discern more 
closely than ever the exquisite beauty and fineness of the 
work. It would be absurd indeed to imagine such a place 
to be modern, for who, in these busy days, would bestow 
so much time, labor and patience on the building and 
ornamentation of a subterranean chapel with shells? At 
a rough calculation, I should say that it would take a 
man an entire day, working hard every hour, to make 
one square foot of this shell-work, and there are two 
thousand square feet of it altogether. The trouble of col- 
lesting the shells, sorting and arranging them, the infinite 
patience, skill and delicacy of finger required to bed them 
in the clay, apart from the knowledge of art exhibited 
in the plan of each design on the panels — all this taken 
into consideration, heightens the interest and increases the 
value of this Grotto as a splendid example of early ar- 
tistic effort. 

The name of the hill in which it was excavated, “the 
Dane,” suggests the idea that perhaps when the Danish 


One of the World’s Wonders. 15 1 

hordes ravaged the coast in the time of the ancient 
Britons, the place may have been used for secret worship 
of some kind. It was evidently not a mere hiding-place ; 
it was not a dungeon, for the lavish ornamentation of the 
walls and the spaciousness of the building would, in such 
a case, have been quite unnecessary. At any rate, it 
affords a field for students of early art and architecture, 
and I shall be glad if my description of the place induces 
those who are learned in the land to visit it and give 
public voice to their ideas respecting its origin. It is as 
wonderful in its way as Fingal’s Cave, or the Blue Grotto 
at Capri, both of which magnificent natural structures are 
celebrated throughout the world ; while the Shell Grotto, 
badly named and badly advertised, and, moreover, hav- 
ing the disadvantage of being at over-popular Margate, 
remains temporarily in obscurity. 

All mention of it has been lately omitted from the 
Margate Guide-book. I hear that it was once alluded to 
there, en passant, in two or three lines; but in the new 
editions even that allusion has dropped out. The place 
should be called “The Shell Cave of the Vikings,” “The 
Norsemen’s Cave,” “The Scandinavian Shell Temple” — 
any taking, descriptive title — anything but the “Grotto;” 
for, say what we will, a Margate “Grotto” cannot be 
divided from the idea of shrimps — yea, even horrible sug- 
gestions are presented of periwinkles and pins ! Every- 
body of taste and refinement will and must avoid a Mar- 
gate “Grotto,” even if they know nothing of it but its 


name. 


152 One of the World’s Wonders. 

If some enthusiastic worshiper of Art would but take 
a trip to Margate, and give the world his opinion on 
the design and art-work of this subterranean temple, I 
am sure he would tell us that we are a very dense and 
stupid people to be so indifferent to one of the rarest 
antiquities we possess. The place should be given a new 
and fitting title, to raise it with honor from the half- 
suspicious distrust and incredulity in which it is now 
held, and make it famous in the eyes of the public by 
giving us the clew to its origin ; proving, perhaps, as far 
as proof can go, that these shining, shell-embroidered 
walls and arched roofs have once resounded to the shouts 
of the strong sea warriors whom no terrors of wind or 
wave could daunt, and who swore by and sometimes 
defied, in the plenitude of their muscular vigor and prow- 
ess, the great gods Odin and Thor. 


ANGEL’S WICKEDNESS. 


“I hate God!” said Angel. 

And having made this un-angel-like statement, she fold- 
ed her short arms across her breast and surveyed her 
horrified audience defiantly. 

It was a cold December Sunday afternoon, and the 
Rev. Josiah Snawley was superintending a Bible class 
in a small, whitewashed, damp and comfortless school- 
room in one of the worst quarters of the East End. 
He was assisted in his pious task by the virginal Miss 
Powser, a lady of uncertain age, tall and lanky of limb, 
with sandy locks much frizzled, and a simpering smile. 
The children ranged in a forlorn row before these two 
charitable persons were the miserable offspring of fathers 
and mothers whose chief business it was in life to starve 
uncomplainingly. And Angel — such was the odd name 
given her by her godfathers and godmothers in her bap- 
tism — was one of the thinnest and most ragged among 
all the small recipients of the Rev. Josiah’s instruc- 
tions, wdiich had that day consisted of well-worn, mild 
platitudes respecting the love of God towards His 
wretched, selfish and forever undeserving creation. She 
had usually figured as rather a dull, quiet child, more 
noticeable perhaps than others of her condition by reason 


154 


Angel’s Wickedness. 

of her very big, dark eyes, small, sensitive mouth, and 
untidy mass of chestnut-golden hair ; but she had never 
come prominently to the front, either for cleverness or 
right-down naughtiness till now, when she boldly uttered 
the amazing, blood-curdling declaration above recorded. 

“Was that Angel Middleton who spoke?” inquired the 
Rev. Josiah, with bland austerity. “Say it again, Angel ! 
But, no, no!” — here he shook his head solemnly — “you 
will not dare to say it again !” 

“Yes, I will!” retorted Angel, stubbornly. “I hate 
God! There!” 

A terrible piause ensued. The other children stared at 
their refractory companion in stupefied amazement; they 
did not quite understand who “God” was themselves, 
being but poor, little, weak, physically-incapable creatures, 
who were nearly always too hungry to think much about 
infinite and unreachable splendors; but they had a dim 
idea that whoever the “Unknown Quantity” in Creation’s 
plan might be, it was very wrong to hate Him — dread- 
fully wrong, frightfully wicked, and alarming from all 
points of view. After staring at Angel till they could 
stare no more, some of them put their fingers in their 
mouths and stared at Miss Powser. What did she think 
of it? Oh, she was limp with horror! Her eyes had 
grown paler, greener, and more watery than ever. She 
had clasped her hands, and was looking plaintively at 
the Rev. Josiah, as indeed it was her frequent custom 
to do. He meanwhile laid down the Testament he held, 
and surveyed the whole class with righteous indignation. 


•55 


Angel’s Wickedness. 

“I am shocked !” he said, slowly ; “shocked, and pained, 
and grieved ! Here is a child — one who has been taught 
Bible lessons Sunday after Sunday — who tells me she 
hates God ! What blasphemy ! What temper ! Stand 
forward, Angel Middleton ! Come out of the class !” 

Whereupon Angel came out as commanded, and fully 
declared herself. Like a small alien on strange soil, she 
stood in advance of the other children, her worn, bursting 
shoes showing the dirty-stockinged feet within, her 
patched skirt clinging scantily about her meagre little 
figure, her arms still folded across her chest, and her lips 
set in a thin, obstinate line. Something in her look and 
attitude evidently irritated the Rev. Mr. Snawley, for he 
said, sharply: 

“Unfold those arms of yours directly !” 

She obeyed; but though the offending limbs dropped 
passively at her sides, the little grimy hands remained 
firmly clenched. 

“Now!” and the clergyman drew a deep breath, and, 
taking up his Testament, gave a smart rap with it on 
the desk in front of him. “Explain yourself ! What do 
you mean by such wicked conduct? Why do you hate 
God?” 

Angel looked steadily on the floor, and her lips quiv- 
ered. 

“Because I do!” she replied, resolutely. 

“That’s no answer!” And the reverend gentleman 
turned to his lady assistant in despair: “Really, Miss 
Powser, you should not have admitted such a child as 


156 Angel’s Wickedness. 

this into the Sunday class. She seems to me quite in- 
corrigible — a mere insolent heathen !” 

Miss Powser appeared quite crushed by the majesty 
of this reproach, and feebly murmured something about 
a “mistaken idea of character,” adding, as a bright sug- 
gestion, that the child had better be dismissed. 

“Dismissed? Of course! of course!” snorted the 
Rev. Josiah, angrily. “She must never come here again. 
Such a bad example to the other children ! Do you un- 
derstand what I say, Angel Middleton? You must never 
come here again !” 

“All right,” said Angel, calmly; “I don’t care.” 

“Oh, Angel! Angel!” moaned Miss Powser, faintly. 
“I am so sorry to see this ! I had hoped for much bet- 
ter things from you. Your father ” 

'“That’s it,” interrupted the girl, suddenly, her breast 
heaving. “That’s why I hate God. You teaches us that 
God does everything; well, then, God is killing father. 
Father never did any harm to any one ; and yet he’s dying. 
I know he is ! He couldn’t get work when he was well, 
and now there isn’t enough to eat, and there’s no fire, 
and we’re as miserable as ever we can be, and all the 
time you say God is good and loves us. I don’t believe 
it! If God won’t care for father, then I won’t care for 
God!” 

The words rushed impetuously from her lips with a 
sort of rough eloquence that almost carried conviction; 
her way of reasoning seemed for the moment surprising 


Angel’s Wickedness. 157 

and unanswerable. But the Rev. Mr. Snawley was equal 
to the emergency. 

“ You are a wicked, ignorant child !” he declared, stern- 
ly. “If your father can’t get work, it is most probably 
his own fault. If he is ill and incapable there is always 
the workhouse. And if God doesn’t take care of him 
as you say, it must be because he’s a bad man.” 

Angel’s big eyes flashed fire. 

“Yer lie!” she said, steadily. “He’s worth a dozen 
such as you, anyway.” 

And with this she turned on her heel and left the 
schoolroom, her proud step and manner indicating that 
she metaphorically shook the dust of it forever from her 
feet. Her departure was watched in absolute silence by 
her startled companions, the insulted and indignant 
clergyman, and the pathetic Miss Powser; but when she 
had fairly gone Mr. Snawley, turning to the rest of the 
class, said solemnly: 

“Children, you have seen to-day a terrible exhibition of 
the power of Satan. No one that is not possessed of a 
devil would dare to express any hatred of God! Now 
remember, never let me see any of you playing with 
Angel Middleton. Keep away from her altogether, for 
she’s a bad girl — thoroughly bad — and will only lead you 
into mischief. Do you hear?” 

A murmur, which might have meant either assent or 
dissent, ran through the class, and the Rev. Josiah, 
smoothing his vexed brow, took up his Testament and 


158 


Angel’s Wickedness. 

was about to resume his instructions when a little shrill, 
piping voice cried out : 

“Please, sir, I want to leave the class, sir !” 

“You want to leave the class, Johnnie Coleman!” 
echoed the clergyman. “What for?” 

“Please, sir, ’cos Angel’s gone, sir!” and Johnnie 
stumped his’ way to the front and showed himself — a 
small, bright, elfish-looking boy of about twelve. “Yer 
see, sir, I can’t always promise not to speak to Angel, 
sir; she’s my gal!” 

A gurgling laugh of evident delight rippled along the 
class at Johnnie’s bold avowal, but a stern look from Mr. 
Snawley rapidly checked this ebullition of feeling. 

“Your gal!” and the good clergyman repeated the 
words in a tone of shocked offense. “John Coleman, you 
surprise me!” 

John Coleman, ragged, blue-eyed and dirty, seemed to 
care but little as to whether he surprised the Rev. 
Josiah or not, for he resumed the thread of his shameless 
argument with the most unblushing audacity. 

“ ’Iss sir. She’s my gal, an’ Pm her bloke. Lor’ bless 
yer, sir! we’ve bin so fur years an’ years — ivver since 
we wos babbies, sir. Yer see, sir, ’twouldn’t do fur me 
to go agin Angel now — ’twouldn’t be gentleman-like, sir !” 

Evidently John Coleman knew his code of chivalry by 
heart, though he was only a costermonger’s apprentice, 
and was not to be moved by fear from any of the rules 
thereof, for, gathering courage instead of alarm- from the 
amazed and utter speechlessness of wrath with which 


159 


Angel’s Wickedness. 

Mr. Snawley regarded him, he proceeded to defend the 
cause of his absent ladye-love after the fashion of all true 
knights worthy of their name. 

“I spec’s Angel’s hungry, sir. That’s wot riles her 
wrong-like. Don’t yer know, sir, what it is to ’ave a 
gnawin’ in yer inside, sir ? Oh, it’s orful bad, sir ! really 
’tis, sir — makes yer ’ate everybody wot’s got their stum- 
micks full. An’ when Angel gets a bit ’ere an’ there, 
she gives it all to ’er father, sir, an’ niver a mossul for 
’erself ; an’ now ’e’s a-goin’ to ’is long ’ome, so they sez, 
an’ it’s ’ard on Angel anyways, an’ ” 

“That will do!” burst out Mr. Snawley, loudly, and 
suddenly interrupting the flow of Master Johnnie’s elo- 
quence, and glaring at him in majestic disdain. “You 
can go !” 

“ ’Iss, sir. Thank ye, sir. Much obleeged, sir.” And 
with many a shuffle and grin, Johnnie departed cheer- 
fully, apparently quite unconscious of having committed 
any breach of good manners in the open declaration of his 
sentiments towards his “gal,” and entirely unaware of 
the fact that, apart from the disgust his “vulgarity” had 
excited in the refined mind of the Rev. Josiah, he 
had actually caused the pale suggestion of of a blush to 
appear on the yellow maiden-cheek of Miss Powser! 
Immoral John Coleman ! It is to be feared he was totally 
“unregenerate for, once out of the schoolroom, he never 
gave it or his pious teachers another thought ; but, whoop- 
ing and whistling carelessly, he started off at a run, in- 
tending to join Angel and comfort her as best he might, 


160 Angel’s Wickedness. 

for her private and personal griefs as well as for her 
expulsion from the Bible class. For once, however, he 
failed to find her in any of those particular haunts they 
two were wont to patronize. 

“S’pose she’s gone home,” he muttered, discontentedly. 
“An’ she won’t thank me for botherin’ round w’en ’er 
father’s so bad. Never mind! I’ll wait near the alley 
in case she comes out an’ wants me for ennythink.” 

And with this faithful purpose in view, he betook him- 
self to the corner of a dirty back slum, full of low tene- 
ment houses tottering to decay, in one of which miserable 
abodes his “gal” had her dwelling; and, sitting down on 
an inverted barrel, he began to con over a pictorial alpha- 
bet, a present from Miss Powser, which, though he knew 
it by heart, always entertained him mightily by reason 
of the strange-colored monstrosities that adorned every 
separate letter. 

Meanwhile, as he imagined, Angel had gone home — 
“home” being a sort of close cupboard, dignified in East 
End parlance by the name of “room,” where, on a com- 
mon truckle-bed, scantily covered, lay the sleeping figure 
of a man. He was not old — not more than forty at most 
— but Death had marked his pale, pinched features with 
the great Sign Ineffaceable, and the struggle of passing 
from hence seemed to have already begun, for as he slept 
his chest heaved laboringly up and down with the rapid 
breath that each moment was drawn in shorter gasps of 
pain and difficulty. Angel sat close by him, and her big, 
soft eyes were fixed with passionate eagerness on his face 


Angel’s Wickedness. i6i 

— her whole, little, loving, ardent soul was mirrored in 
that watchful, yearning gaze. 

“How can I?” she murmured to herself. “How can 
I love God, when He is so cruel to father ?” 

Just then the sick man stirred, and, opening his eyes, 
large, dark and gentle, like those of his little daughter, 
he smiled faintly. 

“Is that you, Angel ?” he asked, whisperingly. 

“Yes, father !” And taking his thin hand in her own, 
she kissed it. His glance rested on her lovingly. 

“Ain’t you been to class, dearie ?” 

“Yes, father. But ” She paused ; then, seeing he 

looked anxious and inquiring, she added: “But they 
don’t want me there no more.” 

“Don’t want yer there no more !” her father echoed, in 
feeble wonder. “Why, Angel ” 

“Don’t ye worry, father !” she burst forth, eagerly ; “it’s 
all my fault — ’tain’t theirs ! I said I hated God, and Mr. 
Snawley said I was wicked, an’ I s’pose I am ; but I can’t 
help it, and there’s all about it ! I’m sick of their preach- 
in’ an’ nonsense, an’ it don’t make you no better nor me, 
an’ we’re all wretched, an’ if it’s all God’s doin’, then I 
do hate God, an’ that’s the truth !” 

A flickering gleam of energy came across the suffering 
man’s face, and his large eyes shone with preternatural 
light. 

“Don’t ye, Angel! Don’t ye hate God, my little gel! 
ye mustn’t — no, no ! God’s good ; always good, my dear ! 
It’s all right wi’ Him, Angel ; it’s the world, that forgets 


1 62 Angel’s Wickedness. 

Him, that’s wrong. God does everything kind, dearie. 
He gave me your mother, and He only took her away 
when she was tired and wanted to go. All for the best, 
Angel — all for the best, little lass ! Love God, my child ; 
love Him with all your heart, an’ all your soul, an’ all 
your mind !” 

His voice died in indistinct murmuring, but he still 
kept his gaze fixed wistfully on his daughter’s half- 
sullen little face. She, continuing to fondle his hand, 
suddenly asked : “Why was I called Angel, father ?” 

He smiled, a very sweet and youthful smile. 

“Just a fancy o’ mine an’ your mother’s, my dear — 
that’s all. We was young an’ happy-like then, an’ work 
was easier to get; an’ such a dear, sweet baby lass ye 
were when ye were born, with gold curls all over your 
head and bonnie bright eyes, that we said ye were like 
a little angel. An’ so we named ye Angel for the sake 
of the pleasantness of it an’ the sound of it ; an’ ye must 
be an angel, dearie — Angel by name and angel by nature. 
Yes, yes ; it’ all right ! God gave ye to me, an’ He knows 
all — all the trouble an’ worry an’ fret ” 

He broke off suddenly, and sat up straight in his bed, 
while Angel, terrified by a strange expression in his face 
that she had never seen there before, cried out sharply: 
“Father ! father ! what is it?” 

He did not answer her ; his eyes were full of radiance, 
and seemed to be looking at something his frightened 
child could not see. 

“Angel,” he said, presently, in a faint, hoarse whisper, 


Angel’s Wickedness. 163 

“look ! There’s your mother ! I knew she’d come ! 
Don’t ye hate God, my little gel ! He’s sent her for me. 
God’s as good as good can be ; it’s the world that’s wrong 

— the world ” He paused ; his breathing almost 

stopped, and he still stared steadily before him. 

“Father! father!” sobbed Angel, sinking on her knees 
in a passion of grief and fear. “Oh, father !” 

His hand wandered feebly to her bent head, and lay 
coldly on her warm, soft hair. 

“Don’t ye — hate — God — Angel!” he gasped, brokenly. 
“Love Him — an’ — an’ He’ll take care of ye !” Then, all 
at once, with a rich, manly ring in his voice, such as his 
poor, forlorn daughter had seldom heard, he exclaimed: 
“All right, my lass ; I’m coming !” 

Starting up at the sound, and chilled to the heart with 
dread, Angel gave one wild look at him; and, lo! while 
she yet gazed he fell back heavily; a solemn shadow 
crossed his face — a shadow which, passing as swiftly as 
it had descended, left the features smooth and young. 
Every line of care and perplexity vanished as if by 
magic ; a smile settled on his lips, and all was over. With 
a shriek of agony the desolate child flung herself across 
the bed by her father’s stiffening corpse, unable to realize 
his death, and out of the very acuteness of her despair 
sank for the time being into merciful insensibility. 

Late on that same evening Johnnie Coleman, sleepy and 
disappointed, prepared to leave the corner of the alley 
where he had kept faithful vigil aii the afternoon, and 
set himself to return to the dirty piece of matting on the 


164 


Angel’s Wickedness. 


floor in his master the costermonger’s abode, which mat- 
ting he, being an orphan, accepted as bed and lodgment. 
Suddenly his eyes were attracted by a bright glare in the 
sky, and hardly had he had time to receive the impression 
of this when the cry of “Fire ! Fire !” resounded through 
the street, and set him running off at racing speed for the 
exciting scene of the disaster. It was some distance 
away, and as he ran he was quite unaware that another 
fleet-footed figure pursued him — no other than his “gal,” 
Angel Middleton. She had crept out of her wretched 
dwelling, poor child, sick with hunger and stupefied with 
grief, and, perceiving her ragged boy-friend waiting for 
her at the corner, had come towards him slowly and 
languidly, and had been just about to call him by name 
when off he rushed at the pace described, not seeing her, 
whereupon she, in the mere nervous impulse of the mo- 
ment, followed. Soon the two, running thus, were 
merged and lost in a great crowd of people, who stood 
looking up at a wreath of brilliant flames that darted 
from the roof and walls of a small shop and dwelling in 
one — the house of a general grocer and dealer in oil and 
household provision. Owing to the inflammable nature 
of the goods kept in the store, the fire grew fast and 
furious; and though the engines rapidly arrived, it was 
evident that very little could be done to save the perish- 
ing building. The owner of the place threw himself from 
one of the windows and escaped by a miracle without 
injury; but when his wife, half suffocated with smoke, 
was dragged out from the burning walls more dead than 


Angel’s Wickedness. 165 

alive, she struggled frantically to rush back again into the 
heart of the flames. 

“My children! my baby!” she screamed and wailed. 
“Save them — oh, save them ! Let me go ! Let me die 
with them !” 

“Steady, mother !” said one of the pitying firemen, hold- 
ing her arm in a tight grip. “ ’Tain’t no use frettin’. 
Leave the little ’uns to God !” 

Yes, truly to God, and — His “Angel”! For suddenly 
the crowd parted; a little girl, white-faced and dark- 
eyed, with golden-brown hair streaming behind her like 
a comet, rushed through and made straight for the burn- 
ing house. There was a horrified pause; then Johnnie 
Coleman’s shrill voice, rendered shriller by terror, cried 
out : 

“It’s Angel — Angel Middleton!” 

“Angel Middleton!” roared the crowd, not knowing 
the name, but catching it up and echoing it forth like 
a cheer in responsive excitement. “Hooray for Angel ! 
There’s a brave gel for ye ! See — she’s got the baby !” 

And, sure enough, there at one of the burned-out win- 
dows, with smoke and flame eddying around her, stood 
Angel, holding a tiny infant in her arms, the while she 
looked anxiously down into the street below for some 
further means of rescue. Several people rushed forward, 
holding an extended sheet which had been hastily pro- 
cured, and, fearing lest she should be stupefied into in- 
action by the smoke, they shouted : 

“Throw it, Angel ! Never fear ! Throw it down P 


1 66 Angel’s Wickedness. 

Whereupon Angel threw the child; it was caught in 
safety, and she, the rescuer, vanished; only to reappear 
again, however, at the same window with two more small 
children, of about two and four years of age, at sight 
of which such a thunder of acclamation went up as might 
have been heard at the furthest holes and corners of 
degraded Whitechapel. She, meanwhile, leaning far out 
over the charred and smoking window-frame, demanded 
in clear, ringing tones : 

“Are there any more children ? Are these a41 ?” 

“Yes, yes!” shrieked the frantic mother, running for- 
ward with her just-restored baby clasped to her breast; 
“all! You’ve saved them all! God love you, dear!” 

Once more the protecting sheet was outspread, and 
without any haste or alarm for her own safety, Angel let 
one child after another drop straightly and steadily from 
her hold; they were caught and saved, uninjured. Then 
all interest became centered on the girl heroine herself ; 
and as the wall on which she had her footing tottered to 
and fro, a great cry went up from the crowd. 

“Quick ! quick, Angel ! Jump !” 

A smile crossed her pale face for a moment ; she looked 
to right and left, and was just about to leap from her 
perilous position when, with a sickening crash, the brick- 
work beneath her gave way and crumbled to ruins, while 
up roared a new and fierce pyramid of fire. Quickly and 
courageously all hands went to the rescue of the rescuer, 
and in a few minutes, which to the pitying onlookers 
seemed long hours, they dragged her forth, cruelly burned 


Angel’s Wickedness. 167 

but not disfigured — crushed and dying, but not dead. 
Lifting her tenderly, they carried her out of reach of 
the smoke and laid her down, one gentle-hearted fireman 
supporting her little golden head against his arm, while 
the mother, whose children she had saved, fell on her 
knees beside her, weeping and blessing her, and kissing 
her poor, charred hands. She was quite conscious, and 
very peaceful. 

“Don’t yer mind,” she said, placidly ; “father’s gone, an’ 
’twould ha’ bin no use for me to stay. Why, Johnnie! 
are you there?” And her wandering eyes rested smil- 
ingly on a small doubled-up object close by that looked 
more like a bundle of rags than a boy. 

“ ’Iss,” sobbed Johnnie. “Oh, Angel! I’ve bin waitin’ 
for ye all the arternoon. I wouldn’t stop in class arter 
they wouldn’t ’ave ye no more; an’ I wanted to see ye 
an’ tell ye as how it wouldn’t make no change in me ; an’ 
now — now ” 

Tears prevented the faithful Johnnie’s further utter- 
ance; and Angel, with an effort, made a sign that she 
wished him to come nearer. He came, and she put up 
her lips to his. 

“Kiss me, Johnnie,” she whispered. He obeyed, the 
great drops rolling fast down his grimy cheeks, while the 
crowd, reverently conscious of the solemn approach of 
death, circled round these two young things and watched 
their parting with more passionate though unspoken sym- 
pathy than could ever have been expressed by the noblest 
poet in the noblest poem. 


1 68 


Angel’s Wickedness. 


“I was wicked,” said Angel, softly; then, “You must 
tell them all, Johnnie — at class — that I was wicked, and — • 
that I am — sorry I said I hated God; I didn’t under- 
stand. It’s all for the best — father’s gone, and I’m goin’ 
— an’ I’m so glad, Johnnie — so happy! Bury me with 
father, please — and tell everybody — everybody — that I 
love God — now.” 

There was a silence. The fireman supporting the girl’s 
head suddenly raised his hand with suggestive gravity, 
and those who wore hats in the crowd reverently lifted 
them. The smothered sobbing of tender-hearted women 
alone broke the stillness ; the stars seemed to tremble in 
the sky as the Greater Angel descended and bore away 
the lesser one on wings of light to heaven. 

And the East End turned out from every grimy hole 
and squalid corner all its halt and blind, and maimed and 
miserable, and bad and good, to attend at Angel’s funeral. 
The East End has a rough heart of its own, and that 
heart had been touched by an Angel’s courage, and now 
ached for an Angel’s loss. She and her father were 
buried together in the same grave on Christmas Eve ; and 
the Rev. Josiah Snawley, realizing perhaps for the 
first time the meaning of the words, “Let your light so 
shine before men , that they may see your good works , and 
glorify your Father which is in Heaven” read the Burial 
Service with more emotion than was usual with him. 
Poor Johnnie Coleman, wearing a bit of crepe in his hat, 
and carrying three penny bunches of violets to throw 
upon his little sweetheart’s coffin, was the most sincerely 


Angel’s Wickedness. 169 

doleful of all chief mourners; desperately rubbing and 
doubling his dirty fists into his eyes, he sobbed incessantly 
and refused to be comforted. 

“Worn’t she my gal?” he blubbered indignantly to a 
would-be consoler. “An’ ain’t I to be sorry at losin’ ’er? 
I tell ye there ain’t no one left alive as good as she wos !” 

Even Miss Powser forgot for the nonce that she was a 
lonely spinster, whom nobody, not even Mr. Snawley, 
seemed disposed to marry ; and, only remembering simple 
womanliness, shed tears unaffectedly, and spent quite a 
little fortune in flowers to strew over the mortal remains 
of the “mere insolent heathen” — the rebellious child who 
had said she “hated God.” For in this one thing was the 
sum and substance of Angel’s wickedness ; she hated what 
seemed to her poor, unenlightened mind the wanton cruel- 
ty of the inexorable fate that forced her father to starve 
and die! Forgive her! — pity her, good Christians all! 
You who, comfortably fed and clothed, go to church on 
Christmas day and try to shut out every suggestion of 
misery from your thoughts, forgive her as God forgives 
■ — God who knows how often His goodness is mistaken 
and misrepresented by the human-professed exponents of 
divine law, and how He is far more frequently por- 
trayed to His most suffering, ignorant and helpless little 
ones as a God of vengeance rather than what He is — a 
God of love ! 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


“After long sleep, to wake up in heaven to the sound 
of a beautiful voice, singing! . . 

The sick man muttered these words aloud, and, turning 
on his pillow, opened his eyes to meet the cold, grey, pas- 
sionless ones of his physician, who bent over him, watch 
in hand. 

“Delirious, eh?” said the doctor, observing him nar- 
rowly. “This won’t do at all. How’s the pulse?” The 
patient extended his wrist. “H’m ! Not so bad ! You 
were talking nonsense just now, Mr. Denver.” 

“Was I?” Denver smiled faintly, and sighed. “I was 
dreaming, I think ; a strange dream, about” — he paused a 
moment, then went on — “about heaven.” 

The doctor put his big watch back in its pocket, and 
looked about for his hat and gloves. 

“Ah, indeed !” he murmured abstractedly. “Very 
pleasant, no doubt ! Dreams are often exceedingly 
agreeable. You must go on with the medicine, Mr. Den- 
ver; it will alleviate pain, and it is all I can do for you at 
present. If you could pick up your strength, we might 
try an operation ; but it’s no use just now.” 

Denver’s sad dark eyes rested on his wistfully. 

“Stop a moment, doctor,” he said. “I should like to 


The Distant Voice. 


171 


ask you a question. Fm not delirious ; Im quite myself 
— at least, as much as I shall ever be. I know mine is a 
hopeless case; cancer is bound to kill, sooner or later. 
Still, you’re only mortal yourself, and the time must come 
when you will have to go the same way I am going. Fm 
on the verge of the grave, so it’s not worth while deceiv- 
ing me. Now, tell me honestly, do you believe in 
heaven ?” 

The doctor had found his hat and gloves by this time, 
and was ready for departure. 

“Dear me, no !” he answered ; “certainly not ! That is, 
if you mean a supernatural heaven. The only heaven 
possible to the human being is the enjoyment of a certain 
set of brain sensations which elevate him into a particular 
mood of happiness; hence the saying that ‘heaven is not 
a place but a state of mind/ ” 

“Then,” went on Denver slowly, “you do not think 
there is any sort of conscious or individual life after 
death?” 

“My dear sir,” replied the doctor, somewhat testily — 
he was a great man in his profession and had a number 
of distinguished patients waiting for him that morning — 
“these are questions for the clergyman of the parish, not 
for me. I really have no ability to argue on such ab- 
struse matters. I can only say, as a man who has studied 
science to some extent, that I personally am convinced 
that death is the natural and fitting end of the diseased or 
superannuated human being, and that, when he dies, he 
is beyond all doubt absolutely dead and done for.” 


172 


The Distant Voice. 


John Denver still looked at him earnestly. 

“Thank you !” he said, at last, after a pause. “You are 
a clever man, doctor, and you ought to know. I am an 
ignorant fellow — always was ignorant, I’m afraid. But 
when I worked for my living as a lad down in the mines, 
and looked up from the darkness of that deep earth to the 
round bit of blue sky that shone in thick with Stars above 
me, I used to believe heaven was there and God in the 
midst of it. It was nonsense, I suppose, but I wish I had 
the old faiths now. I think I should be able to bear my 
trouble better.” 

The doctor was slightly embarrassed and perplexed. 
It was the old story ; he had no drug wherewith to “min- 
ister to a mind diseased.” Patients often bored him in 
this way with troublesome questions. If John Denver 
had been a poor man instead of a rich one, he might not 
have even answered him; but millionaires are not met 
with every day, and Denver was a millionaire. 

“Why do you not see your clergyman?” he asked. “It 
is possible he might reinstate you in your beliefs ” 

Denver’s brow clouded. 

“My clergyman?” he echoed, a trifle sorrowfully. 
“My clergyman is far too occupied with the comforts of 
earth to think over-deeply concerning the joys of heaven. 
The last time I saw him, he urgently begged me to leave 
something to the Church in my will. T am sorry to hear 
your disease is hopeless,’ he said, 'but I am sure you 
would wish a part of your wealth to be of some benefit to 
the Almighty.’ As if any ■ man’s money could really 


The Distant Voice. 


173 


‘benefit’ the Creator of all things! No, doctor! My 
clergyman has no support to give me in the trial I am 
passing through. I must bear it quite alone. Don’t let 
me detain you any longer. Good-morning, and again 
thank you !” 

The physician muttered a hasty response, and made his 
exit, glad to escape from what he considered the “fads” 
of a fanciful invalid. 

Left to himself, John Denver stared wearily into the 
vacancy of the great room in which he lay. It was fur- 
nished simply, yet richly, and through the large bay win- 
dow, set half open, he could see the verdant stretches of 
park and meadow land of which he was the owner. He 
thought of the years of patient toil he had endured to 
amass his present wealth; of his life out in the “far 
West;” of the sudden discovery of silver ore which had 
made him one of the richest men in the world, and of all 
the glamour and glitter of slavish society which had at- 
tended him ever since his attainment of fortune. He 
thought of the pretty woman he had married — a fresh, 
lively girl when he had first met her, and one whom he 
had fondly fancied loved him for himself alone, but who 
was now no more than a frivolous mondaine, for whom 
nothing was sacred but social conventionalism, and whose 
heart had steadily hardened under the influence of bound- 
less wealth till she was as soulless as a fashion-plate. He 
thought of his children, who had never loved him with 
really disinterested affection — of his son, who only looked 
upon him as the necessary provider of his yearly allow- 


174 


The Distant Voice. 


ance; of his daughter, who was running the rounds of 
society in search of some titled noodle for a husband, al- 
most, if not utterly indifferent to the fact that her father 
was dying of an incurable disease ; and, as memory after 
memory chased itself through his tired brain, a sudden 
rush of tears blinded him, and he groaned aloud, “Oh, 
God ! what has my life been worth ! What worth has any 
life if death must be the end?” 

At that moment a slight tap came at his door, and be- 
fore he had time to say “Come in !” the intending visitor 
abruptly entered. 

“I thought I should find you alone, John Denver,” he 
said, in singularly low, musical tones. “I met your wife 
in the garden, and she told me the doctor had just left 
you.” 

Denver nodded a faint assent. He was weary and ex- 
hausted, and in the presence of this particular friend of 
his, was always strangely disinclined to speak. Truth to 
tell, Paul Valitsky, known to many as a great painter, and 
suspected by some of being a dangerous Russian Nihilist, 
was a rather remarkable-looking man, possessed, too, of 
a certain fascination which attracted some people and dis- 
tinctly intimidated others. Though small of stature and 
somewhat bent, he was not old ; his face, pale and rather 
angular, was beautified by a pair of fine eyes, greenish- 
grey in hue, with an occasional changeful light in them 
like that which plays on opals. These eyes were his chief 
feature; they at once captivated and held all who met 
their fiery iridescent glances ; and as he turned them now 


The Distant Voice. 


175 


on Denver, a great kindness softened them — an expres- 
sion of infinite tenderness and regard, which was not lost 
upon the invalid, though he lay still and apparently un- 
moved to any responsive feeling by that gentle and 
searching scrutiny. 

“So the fiat has gone forth, and we must die!” said 
Valitsky presently, in almost caressing accents. “Well, 
there are worse things in life than death.” 

Denver was silent. 

“You dislike the idea?” resumed his visitor after a 
slight pause. “The quiet of the tomb is not an agreeable 
prospect? You seem discomposed; but you are a brave 
man — you surely cannot be afraid !” 

“No, I am not afraid,” replied Denver, steadily. “I am 
only — sorry !” 

“Sorry! And why?” 

“Well, in the first place I am sorry to have made so 
little good use of my time. All I have done has been to 
amass money, and what is that ? — a delusive quest and an 
unsatisfactory gain, for I profit nothing by my life’s work 
— my gold cannot cure sickness or keep back death. In 
some unfortunate way, too” — he paused and sighed — “I 
have missed love out of all my fortunes, and now, here at 
the last, I am left alone to meet my fate as best I can, and 
my ‘best’ is a bad attempt. Yes, I am sorry to die; I am 
sorry to leave the world, for it is beautiful ; sorry to lose 

the sight of the sun and the blue sky ” he broke off 

for a moment, then went on, “But I tell you, Paul, if I 
could believe in another life after this one, as you do, and 


The Distant Voice. 


176 

if the dream I had an hour ago were a truth, then I 
should not be sorry, I should be glad !” 

“Ay, ay!” and Valitsky nodded sympathetically. 
“And what was this dream?” 

“I dreamed I was in heaven,” said Denver, his troubled 
face lighting up with an inward rapture. “But not such 
a heaven as the parsons preach of ; it was a world some- 
what resembling this one, only vaster and more beautiful. 
I seemed to myself to have wakened suddenly out of a 
deep sleep, and as I woke I heard a voice — the loveliest 
and tenderest voice imaginable! — singing a sweet song; 
and I swear to you, Paul, I thought I knew and loved the 
unseen singer!” 

Valitsky rose from the chair he had occupied near the 
window, and, approaching the bed, laid his fine, nervous 
hand on Denver’s wrist, fixing him at the same time with 
his strange iridescent eyes. 

“So you have heard a voice from the other world, my 
friend !” he said. “And yet you doubt ! You know what 
I am — you know that for me, at times, the portals of the 
unseen are set open. Men call me artist, idealist, mad- 
man, judging me thus because I know the touch of higher 
things than are common to ordinary eating, drinking, 
breeding, perishing clay ; but let them call me what they 
will, at death my faith will bridge the tomb, where their 
materialism shrinks away in fear and horror. That 
voice you heard — listen and tell me — was it at all like 
this?” 

He held up his hand with a warning gesture — and, 


The Distant Voice. 


177 


through the silence, a faint, delicious sound of song came 
floating distinctly — clear, yet far off, as though it fell 
from the regions of the upper air. 

“My God !” cried Denver, starting up in his bed. “It 
is the same — the very same ! Paul, Paul ! What does it 
mean ?” 

“It means,” answered Valitsky, steadily, “that you are 
on the verge of the Eternal, my friend, and that I, a poor 
unworthy medium of communication, am bidden to as- 
sure you of the fact. The heaven you dreamed of is a 
real heaven; the voice you hear is a real voice; and the 
one who sings awaits your coming with all the love you 
have missed in your life till now. Believe me or not as 
you will, I speak the truth. Death, or what mortals call 
death, will bestow upon you such joy as is incapable of 
human comprehension or expression; but at the same 
time it is but fair to you to say that you can have your 
choice — knowing what I have told you, you yet have the 
privilege given to you to decide whether you will die or 
live on.” 

Denver stared amazedly. “You talk in riddles, Paul! 
Live on? I? My doom is sealed; I know that well 
enough. You can do nothing, spiritualist and idealist 
though you are, to hinder it.” 

“If you choose to live, you shall live!” said Valitsky 
firmly. “I will guarantee it, for so I have been com- 
manded. Cancer shall not kill, nor any other evil cut the 
thread of your existence. But, were I you, I would die 
rather than live.” 


The Distant Voice. 


178 

Denver had grown very pale. 

“You — you will guarantee my life if I choose to live?” 
he asked, in low, tremulous tones. “Can you guarantee 
it?” 

“I can and will. I swear it! I came here to-day on 
purpose to tell you so. But think well before deciding! 
— the barriers of the unseen world are lifted now, ready 
for your admission. If by your own choice they close 
again, the voice you heard will sing to you no more.” 

With a wild, searching glance Denver scrutinized his 
strange friend’s pale countenance. It was passionate and 
earnest — only the eyes sparkled with an intense, fiery 
gleam. Uncertain what to believe, and yet strongly im- 
pressed by Valitsky’s steadfast manner — knowing him, 
too, for a man who was credited, rightly or wrongly, with 
singularly occult powers, he suddenly made up his mind 
and spoke out impetuously. 

“I will live!” he said. “The next world may be a 
dream ; the sweet voice that stole away my heart may be 
a delusion ; but this world is real — a tangible fact, a place 
in which to move and breathe and think in. I will stay 
in it while I can ! If you indeed have the force you seem 
to possess, why, use it upon me and give me life — this 
life ! I choose, not heaven but earth ; I will live on !” 

Slowly Valitsky withdrew from the bedside, and 
standing a few paces away, surveyed Denver with an in- 
tense expression of mingled scorn and compassion. 

“Be it so,” he said. “Live! And try to find joy, 
peace, or love in what life brings you. You have chosen 


The Distant Voice. 


179 


badly, my poor friend! You have rejected a glorious 
reality for a miserable delusion. When you are tired of 
your choice let me know. For the present, farewell !” 

The door opened and closed softly — he was gone. For 
hours John Denver lay still with wide-open eyes, going 
over and over every detail of the strange conversation he 
had had with this strange man, and wondering whether 
it was true that he was granted a new lease of life, or 
whether it was mere fantastic boasting on Valtisky’s part. 
Finally he slept a sound and dreamless sleep. 

The next day, on awaking, he was free from pain, and 
during the ensuing week he was so far recovered as to be 
able to leave his bed and resume his ordinary occupations. 
The great physician who attended him was completely 
taken aback; the supposed cancerous ailment appeared 
after all to have no existence, and for the thousandth 
time an apparently infallible doctor was proved wrong. 
John Denver lived — as Valitsky had sworn he should do. 
He lived to see his son in the criminal’s dock for forging 
a friend’s name ; he lived to see his daughter married to a 
vicious “nobleman,” whose days were passed in gambling 
and nights in drinking; he lived to know that his wife 
had been faithless to him for years, and that she had 
hoped for his death and was furiously disappointed at his 
continuance of life; he lived to entertain flatterers who 
fawned upon him for his wealth alone, to feed servants 
who robbed him at every turn, to realize to the full the 
cruelty, hypocrisy, meanness, and selfishness of his fel- 
low-creatures — till, at last, after seven tedious summers 


i8o 


The Distant Voice. 


and winters had passed away, a great weariness came 
over him and a longing for rest. Conscious of the failure 
and futility of his life, he sat all alone one evening in his 
great library, looking vaguely out on the misty moonlit 
lawn, and unbidden tears rose to his eyes as he thought, 
“If I could only dream again that dream of heaven, and 
awake to hear the sound of that beloved and beautiful 
voice singing!” 

On a sudden impulse he drew pen and paper toward 
him, and wrote to Paul Valitsky, whom he had only 
very rarely and casually seen since that strange personage 
had offered him the choice of life or death. 

“My Friend — You told me when I was tired to let you 
know. I am tired now. Life offers me nothing. I 
made, as you said, a bad choice. If you believe in heaven 
still, will you assure me of it? If that voice I once heard 
is real, if it is the voice of one who is pitiful, and true, 
and tender, may I not hear it again? Certain mysteries 
are unveiled to you, certain faiths are clear to you ; if to 
your potent secret force I owe the gift of longer life, take 
it back I entreat you, and let me find myself where I was 
seven years ago, on the verge of the eternal, with the 
golden gates ajar!” 

Several days elapsed before he received any reply to 
this letter, and he was growing restless, feverish, and im- 
patient, when at last it came, its characteristic brevity 
quieting him into a strange and passive peace. It ran 
thus: “Heaven has not altered its design or changed its 
place, my friend, because blind earth doubts its beauty. 


The Distant Voice. 


181 


Your seven years is a little seven minutes to the dwellers 
in that higher sphere — a mere pause in the song you 
heard ! Be satisfied — on the night you receive this letter, 
the song shall be continued and the singer declared.” 

Dreamily John Denver sat at his open window, with 
this missive in his hand ; the glory of a rosy sunset bathed 
all the visible country, and a thrush, swaying to and fro 
on a branch of pine, piped a tender little evening carol. 
He listened to the bird with a vague pleasure; he was 
quite alone — alone as he had been for many months since 
his wife had fled from him with her latest lover. He 
was conscious of a singular sensation, an impression of 
duality, as though he, John Denver, were the mere frame 
or casing for another individual and intelligent person- 
ality, a creature that until now had been pent up in clay, 
suffering and resentful, but that at the present moment 
was ready to break loose from imprisonment into a vast 
and joyous liberty. 

“And yet,” he murmured, half aloud, “if there is a 
heaven, what right have I to enter it ? I have done noth- 
ing to deserve it. I have honestly striven to do my best 
according to my poor knowledge; but that is of no ac- 
count. I have missed love on earth, it is true; but why 
should I expect to find it in another world? Valitsky de- 
clares that all God’s work is founded on pure equity, and 
that every human soul has its mate either here or else- 
where ; if that were true — if that could be true — perhaps 
by the very law of God which knows no changing, I may 
meet and love the singer of that heavenly song!” 


1 82 


The Distant Voice. 


At that very moment a sound, sweet and penetrating, 
pierced the silence — the full, delicious cadence of a melo- 
dy more dulcet than ever came from the throat of any 
amorous lark or nightingale ; and John Denver, the weary 
and world-worn man of many cares and many disappoint- 
ments, stood up alert, pale and expectant, peering wist- 
fully yet doubtfully into the gathering shadows of his 
room. Earth and earth’s gains had proved delusions — 
would the hope of heaven prove equally vain ? 

“The voice divine!” he whispered rapturously. “The 
same beloved voice I heard before! ... It sings 
again ! So sweet a voice could not deceive. I will ac- 
cept it as assurance of the truth of God !” 

With straining sight he still gazed into the deepening 
darkness. . . . Was it fancy? or did he see there an 

angel-figure, and face fairer than that of any pictured 
vision? — a face luminous as a star, and full of tenderest 
appeal, love, and ecstasy. He stretched out his arms 
blindly . . wonderingly . . . with a supernal 

sense of joy. 

“It is true!” he said. “God is just, and heaven exists, 
despite all narrow, worldly doubtings! What has been 
missed shall be found ; what has been lost shall be gained ; 
and even to the poorest, the most sinful, and most ignor- 
ant, shall consolation be given ! For death is not death — 
but life !” 

He staggered a little — his breath failed him — and fall- 
ing back in his chair he closed his eyes. The mystic 


The Distant Voice. 183 

voice sang on, flooding the silence with exquisite music ; 
he smiled, listened. 

“After long sleep, to wake up in heaven to the sound 
of a beautiful voice singing!” he murmured — and then 
was still. 

And even so John Denver slept the sleep of death ; and, 
if all faiths are not frenzies, even so he woke ! 


THE WITHERING OF A ROSE. 


Immediately above the picturesque town of Lucerne 
there is a towering eminence clothed with pines, to the 
summit of which the exploring and aspiring tourist can 
ascend by one of those ingeniously contrived “funicular” 
railways, now so common in all the mountainous districts 
of Switzerland. 

The little passenger-car is worked by the cog-wheel- 
and- water system, and jogs slowly up a precipitous in- 
cline, which, surveyed from the bottom, appears to slant 
at about an angle of seventy degrees. But it is not so 
perilous as it seems. The journey is easy and safe 
enough ; and those who are troubled with “nervous sen- 
sations,” and who insist on closing their eyes firmly while 
traveling up in the strange conveyance, which, when ob- 
served from a sufficient distance, certainly somewhat re- 
sembles a squat kind of blue-bottle clinging to a wall, will 
have their full consolation and reward on arriving at the 
top. 

For there one of the most glorious landscapes in the 
world is spread before the enraptured sight; the lovely 
“Lake of the Four Cantons” glitters below in all its width 
of vasty blue, surrounded by kingly mountains, the peaks 
of which, even in the height of summer, still keep on their 


The Withering of a Rose. 185 

sparkling 1 diadems of virginal snow; on either hand a 
forest of tall pine trees stretches away for miles — a forest 
where one may wander in solitude for hours, walking on 
a thick carpet of the softest moss, strewn with the brown 
and fragrant “pine needles/’ scarcely hearing one’s own 
footsteps, and seeing nothing but the arching cathedral- 
like splendor of solemn green gloom, flecked through here 
and there by the blue of the sky and the bright rays of 
the sun. 

At the entrance of this forest stands one of the prettiest 
of rustic hotels, known as the “Pension Gutsch,” a house 
built in the true Swiss style, with picturesque gabled 
roofs and wide wooden verandas — its charming seclusion 
and simplicity offering a delightful contrast to the garish 
glories of the “Schweizerhof” and the other monstrous 
Americanized hotels of Lucerne, where the main object 
of every one concerned, from the portier down to the 
smallest paying guest, appears to be to forget as com- 
pletely as possible the fact that Switzerland, as Switzer- 
land, exists, and to live solely for the enjoyment of the 
table-d’hote, dress, flirtation, and lawn-tennis. 

It is a singular fact, but true, that all the big hotels in 
Lucerne have their table-d’hdte dinner served precisely at 
the sunset-hour — the very time when grand old Mount 
Pilatus is gathering around his frowning brows strange 
and mystic draperies of crimson and gold and green — 
when the lake looks like melted jewels, and all the lovely 
hues of heaven are merging by delicious graduations into 
the cool, pearly gray of such pure twilight as is never 


1 86 The Withering of a Rose. 

seen, save in countries where the air is rarefied by the 
presence of perpetual snow. For this very reason per- 
sons of a fanciful and romantic turn of mind, who prefer 
scenery to soup, frequently do battle with their nerves to 
the extent of being lifted — like little frightened children 
in a basket — up the precipitous “Gutsch,” where at the 
unpretentious, spotlessly clean, and fragrant hotel bear- 
ing that name, then can do pretty much as they like, and 
have the supreme comfort of quiet rooms and refreshing 
sleep, luxuries completely denied them at all the large 
hotels in the town. 

Moreover, by making a special arrangement and pay- 
ing a little extra, they can have their meals served at their 
own stated hours, all of which sensible management and 
forethought on the part of the proprietor has the result 
of making his house a favorite resort of artists, poets, and 
dreamers generally. The frivolous and empty-headed 
would not care for such a place — it offers nothing but re- 
pose and beauty; it is not a suitable abode for golfers or 
tomboy tennis-players — they do well to remain in Lucerne 
and cling to the noisy and overcrowded “Schweizerhof.” 
But it is eminently fitted for lovers in the first stage of 
sentimental ardor, and it is an ideal nook wherein to 
spend a happy honeymoon. 

When, on one dazzling afternoon in early July, a gen- 
tleman with black mustache got out of the little “funic- 
ular” car, and assisted a charmingly-attired and very 
young lady with fair hair to alight also-; and when these 
twain were followed by a valet, a maid, and the porter, 


The Withering of a Rose. 187 

bearing some very new-looking luggage ; none of the peo- 
ple already staying at the “Gutsch” had any difficulty in 
classifying them. They were newly married; their very 
appearance betrayed them. One of the regular habitues 
of the place, a dark-eyed young man clad in carelessly 
fitting tweeds, said as much to the landlord, who, having 
bowed the couple in, now stood on his doorstep benevo- 
lently surveying the prospect. 

“On their wedding tour, I suppose ?” he observed, with 
a smile. 

“It is possible,” replied mine host, discreetly. “The 
lady is young. Not so young the gentleman. They have 
engaged the best rooms.” 

“Ah ! Plenty of money about, then ?” 

“It is to be thought so,” replied the proprietor, as he 
continued to smile blandly at the scenery. “The lady has 
a maid, the gentleman a valet. Everything” — and he 
spread out his hands expressively — “is de luxe. They 
are English people — evidently well bred. Perhaps you 
know the name — Allingham — Mr. and Mrs. Allingham, 
of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk?” 

The dark-eyed artist thought a moment, then said 
“No.” A vague idea was in his mind that he had seen a 
sketch or photograph somewhere of Dunscombe Hall, but 
he was not sure. And mine host being called away at the 
moment, the conversation was broken off. 

The new arrivals had their meals served to them pri- 
vately in their own apartments ; so any curiosity felt con- 
cerning them among the table-d'hote company at the 


1 88 The Withering of a Rose. 

“Pension Gutsch” was not destined to be largely grati- 
fied. One morning, however, Mr. Francis Fane, the 
dark-eyed artist already mentioned, met Mrs. Allingham 
walking by herself in one of the lonelier and more out- 
lying paths of the pine forest, and was quite taken aback 
by her extremely childish appearance. She was so small 
and light on her feet, she had such a young, wistful, won- 
dering face, and her figure was cast in such, a dainty and 
delicate mold, that, as she passed him silently by, in her 
simple white morning dress, tied round the waist with a 
knot of blue ribbon, she looked like a little girl just fresh 
from school, and it seemed impossible, almost absurd, to 
consider her as a married woman. 

“Why, she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen!” he 
mentally ejaculated, staring after her, bewilderedly. As 
a matter of fact she was twenty, and had seen two “sea- 
sons” in town ; but things of the “world worldly” had as 
yet left no trace on her fair features, and her eyes still 
held their dreams of innocence unsullied — hence, though 
a woman, she was still a child. 

“Mrs. Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk!” re- 
peated Frank Fane to himself, with a short, gruff laugh. 
“By Jove! It seems preposterous!” 

It did seem, if not preposterous, a little strange; and 
Rose Allingham herself sometimes thought so. She had 
been married just a fortnight, and had not yet got over 
the novel sensation of having a big, thick wedding-ring 
on the tiny third finger of her little white hand. She 
would turn it round and round with a whimsical solemni- 


The Withering of a Rose. 189 

ty, and now and then she secretly polished it up with a 
small bit of chamois leather kept in her jewel-case for the 
purpose. And as she regarded her wedding-ring, even 
so she regarded her husband. The well-dressed gentle- 
man with the perfectly irreproachable manner, even fea- 
tures, and well-groomed mustache, was Harold Brent- 
wood Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk; and she 
was Mrs. Harold Brentwood Allingham, of Dunscombe 
Hall, Norfolk. 

It all seemed very interesting, and new, and important. 
She was never tired of going over and over the events 
which had, in their sequence* led her up to this lofty posi- 
tion of matrimonial dignity. She had left school to be 
“brought out” and “presented” — oh, that presentation! 
Would she ever forget the misery of it? The bother of 
her long train — the nasty, spiteful behavior of the ladies 
who pushed her, pinched her, and generally “scrim- 
maged” for entrance into the throne-room ; the bitter cold 
of the weather, and the horrible draughts that blew all 
over her uncovered neck and arms; the disappointment 
of there being no Sovereign to receive her when she made 
her pretty curtsey (practiced for three weeks under the 
tuition of one of the best mistresses of deportment in Lon- 
don), but only one of the princesses; the extreme hunger 
and thirst from which she suffered during the long 
“wait;” then, her utter prostration and sinking into a 
dead faint when she got home, and having beef-tea put 
down her throat in hot spoonfuls by her anxious mother 
- — all this was perfectly fresh in her mind. 


190 


The Withering of a Rose. 


Then came the memory of several balls and dances, at 
many of which she had met the good-looking and rich 
Mr. Harold Brentwood Allingham, and had danced with 
him — he was a splendid dancer; then Henley, where the 
same Harold Brentwood Allingham had invited her to his 
house-boat, and given her flowers and bonbons; then, a 
visit to a beautiful country house in Devonshire, where 
she had found him installed as one of the house-party; 
then, that afternoon when he had discovered her alone in 
the rose-garden, reading poetry, and, taking the book out 
of her hands, had begun to make love to her. 

Such funny love! Not at all like the love the poets 
write about — nothing in the least like it. There was no 
nonsense about “breaking hearts” and “wild despair” and 
“passionate tinglings” in Mr. Harold Brentwood Alling- 
ham. He was a very self-complacent man — he thought 
marriage a sensible and respectable institution, and was 
prepared to enter upon it in a sensible and respectable 
manner. 

So, without verbiage, or what is called “high-flown” 
sentiment, he had put his case kindly and practically, 
tie had said “Rose, would you like to marry me?” And 
she had surveyed him in such astonishment that he was 
quite amused. 

“I have spoken to your parents,” he had then con- 
tinued, taking her hand, and patting it encouragingly ; 
“and they approve — very highly. You are a charming, un- 
spoiled girl ; and though I am some years older than you, 
that is jufst as it should be. I am sure we shall be happy 


The Withering of a Rose. 191 

together. You know I can give you anything you want. 
My wife” — and here his back had stiffened slightly — 
“would naturally occupy an enviable position in society.” 
And Rose had faltered all over with nervousness. 

“I know !” she had faltered. “But I am not sure that 
I — I love you, Mr. Allingham.” 

He had laughed at this. “Oh, but I am sure,” he had 
replied, “I know you better than you do yourself. There 
is no one else you care for, is there?” 

“Oh, no,” she answered earnestly, which indeed was 
true. She had often reflected on the fact — rather deso- 
lately. No one had shown her any special kindness or 
attention since she “came out” except this Mr. Alling- 
ham. 

“Then let us consider it settled,” he had said, and had 
kissed her, and led her out of the rose garden ; and later 
in the day had given her a wonderful engagement ring of 
the most superb diamonds. And so things had drifted 
on, and the preparation of her trousseau had been a great 
excitement, and her marriage day another excitement ; 
and now, here she was, fast wedded, and on her honey- 
moon in Switzerland, with the irreproachable gentleman, 
whose black mustache would henceforth have to com- 
mand her wifely admiration, year after year, till it turned 
gray. Somehow she had not realized the weight and se- 
riousness of marriage till it was consummated. She had 
read many love-stories, many love-poems, in which all the 
heroes and heroines raved and swore in exquisitely choice 
language, and ended by killing themselves or somebody 


192 The Withering of a Rose. 

else with the dagger, pistol, or poison bowl ; but the even 
prosaicness of married life had not been set before her 
in similarly graphic style. 

Now and then she was a little afraid of herself — 
afraid that she was not as happy as she ought to be. She 
could not analyze her own feelings very well, but occa- 
sionally she caught herself sighing and murmuring un- 
easily, “I wonder if I really love him?” The doubt made 
her uncomfortable, for she had a tender heart and sensi- 
tive conscience. The relations between herself and her 
husband had, up till now, been more formal than passion- 
ate; for among his other idiosyncrasies, Mr. Allingham 
had a nervous horror of ridicule, and, in consequence of 
this, had endured positive torments during their journey 
up the Rhine into Switzerland. He suspected every one 
he met of the crime of knowing he was on his honeymoon 
“tour,” and the unpleasant scowl he assumed for would- 
be friendly strangers frequently remained on his brows 
for the benefit of his young wife, who was thereby ren- 
dered constrained and depressed. 

Arrived at the “Pension Gutsch,” he adopted an equal- 
ly severe and distrustful demeanor toward the good-na- 
tured landlord, who made a dreadful mistake one morn- 
ing by becoming too friendly, and venturing to suggest a 
drive, which he humbly considered would be a charming 
excursion for une jeune mariee. Mr. Allingham gave 
him a look which ought to have transfixed him, if looks 
had any such power, and told him curtly that he did not 
care about “excursions,” and that “Madame” would 


The Withering of a Rose. 


93 


please herself as to a choice of walks or drives. After 
this, the humiliated landlord took care to avoid giving 
further offense by any undue exhibition of personal in- 
terest in his best-paying guests ; and the days rolled on in 
a long, sunshiny stretch of perfect calm, without any 
change to vary or break their peaceful monotony. Days 
of delicious weather they were — pure and balmy as 
spring, though it was full summer — happy days they 
might have proved to Rose Allingham if they had not 
also been days of ever-deepening perplexity. She was a 
very loving little creature— quick to respond to kindness — 
and she troubled herself desperately in secret as to why she 
could not, though she tried, be altogether loving to her 
husband. Something held her back from him — there was 
some impalpable barrier between his nature and hers that 
kept them singularly apart, though to all appearances 
united. The veriest trifles helped to emphasize this cu- 
rious state of things. One evening, strolling together in 
the pine-woods, she began to think of all the dainty love- 
poems she used to read and be so fond of ; and, bringing 
to mind their dulcet teachings, she suddenly took her hus- 
band's hand, and gently slipped it round her waist, lean- 
ing her fair little head confidently back against the shelter 
of the arm thus encircling her. Then, looking up, with 
shy, sweet eyes, and a ravishing blush, she said softly: 

“There! Isn't that nice ?” 

He regarded her with a gentlemanly amazement. 

“Certainly not! It's not ‘nice.' It is anything but 
nice ! I am surprised at you, Rose ! I really am ! Sup- 


194 The Withering of a Rose. 

pose any one were to meet us walking along in this ridic- 
ulous position! Why, they would take us for Cook’s 
tourists — a Cockney ’Arry and ’Arriet out for a stroll! 
Nothing could be more vulgar and degrading!” 

He withdrew his arm in haste, and walked beside her 
stiffly erect, scenting the piney air in virtuous indignation. 
His young wife said not a word, but walked on also, with 
crimsoning cheeks and downcast eyes, her little feet mov- 
ing somewhat wearily. Presently he glared down upon 
her with an air of relenting condescension. 

“Surely you know that demonstrations of affection in 
public are very bad form?” he inquired. 

She looked up, her soft eyes flashing for once with 
something very like scorn. 

“Where is the public?” she asked. “We are quite 
alone; alone with the forest and the sunset — and with 
God ! But I am sorry if my action offended you.” 

“Dear me, I am not offended — why should I be?” he 
retorted, pettishly. “You meant it well, no doubt. But 
wherever we are, alone or before witnesses, we must 
avoid even the appearance of vulgarity. And pray do 
not quote poetry to me ; I hate it. ‘Alone with the forest 
and the sunset, and with God!’ What rubbish that is!” 

“Is it?” and she gave a little sigh. “It is not poetry at 
any rate. It is only me !” 

“Only you!” he repeated. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that I said it — they are my own words ; just as 
they came into my head. Very silly, of course.” 

He eyed her with dignified wonder. 


195 


The Withering of a Rose. 

“Silly !” he echoed. “I should think so, indeed. 
Nothing could be sillier. They remind me of the style 
which the newspaper critics condemn as ‘forcible feeble/ ” 

He smiled, and stroked his black mustache. All at 
once she looked up at him with an expression of pathetic 
pleading in her young face. 

“Harold,” she said, in a low, uncertain voice, “are you 
sure — I mean — do you really love me ?” 

At this he felt seriously vexed; she was going to be 
hysterical, he was sure — women were all alike. 

“My dear Rose,” he replied, with laborious politeness, 
“I think if you will take into consideration the fact that 
I have married you, you will scarcely need to ask such a 
very foolish question. If I had not loved you I should 
not have made you my wife. That you are my wife 
ought to be sufficient for you. The deepest feelings, as 
you know, have the fewest words. I hope” — here his 
voice became distinctly aggrieved in tone — “I hope you 
are not going to cry. Nothing is more childish ; but per- 
haps you are over-tired, and had better go indoors. Pray 
remember that we are living more or less under public in- 
spection, and that a hotel is not the place to make a 
‘scene’ in.” 

She raised her eyes to his. They were dry and bright 
and cold. 

“Do not be afraid,” she said. “I am not crying, and I 
shall make no scene.” 

And, turning from him, she entered the hotel in silence. 


196 The Withering of a Rose. 

He did not follow her, but remained sauntering up and 
down on the turf outside, smoking a cigar. 

The next morning Mr. Francis Fane was out in the 
woods with his easel and sketching-block, bent on finish- 
ing a rather powerful study of a tall pine-tree split 
through by lightning. He had been hard at work for 
more than an hour before he became aware that there was 
a small white bundle lying, apparently 'thrown, on the 
moss at some little distance off. He could not make it 
out very distinctly, for the shadows of the pines were so 
long and wide, and presently, moved by curiosity, he got 
up and went to see what it was. As he approached, it 
resolved itself into a figure — a slight little figure clad in 
white with a blue ribbon round its waist — and stopping 
abruptly in his advance, he caught the smothered sound 
of low sobbing. 

“By Jove !” he muttered — “Mrs. Allingham !” 

Indescribably pained and uncomfortable at this discov- 
ery, he was about to step noiselessly back to his easel 
without uttering a word, when the girl suddenly raised 
her head, and perceiving him, started up, nervously trying 
to control herself. 

“I — I beg your pardon!” he stammered. “I — I came 
out here to make a sketch — ” 

“Not of me, I hope!” she said, with a little tremulous 
smile; then without the least pretence or affectation, she 
dried her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief and began to 
laugh, though a trifle forcedly. 

“I came out here, not to sketch, but to cry,” she con- 


The Withering of a Rose. 197 

fessed naively. “You know -if s very nice to have a little 
weep to oneself sometimes.” 

“Is it?” and he reddened foolishly. “I should have 

thought ” But he could not devise any fitting end to 

the sentence ; and she looked at him with a touch of wist- 
fulness in her dewy eyes. 

“May I see your sketch?” she said, picking up a large 
pine-cone from the ground and studying its pretty pol- 
ished divisions with intense interest. “I have often no- 
ticed you wandering about with your easel and paint-box. 
You are Mr. Francis Fane, are you not? and you are 
staying at the same hotel as we are?” 

To all this he assented, walking beside her dreamily, 
and always thinking what a child she looked. As they 
drew near the spot where he had left his easel, he woke 
up to consciousness of prosy etiquette, and endeavored to 
realize that his companion was not a woodland sylph as 
she seemed, but a “married lady” of position. 

“I’m afraid my poor sketch is hardly worth your look- 
ing at, Mrs. Allingham ?” he began, formally. She inter- 
rupted him by a little gesture. 

“Oh, you know I am Mrs. Allingham?” she queried, 
smiling. 

“Of course I do !” he answered, somewhat amused and 
surprised at her tone. “Everybody at the Tension 
Gutsch" knows you by sight.” 

She mused a little, still intent on the mathematical par- 
titions of the pine-cone she held. Suddenly she looked 
up. 


198 The Withering of a Rose. 

“And what do they say of me ?” she asked. 

Fane was quite taken aback by the directness of the 
question. Meeting her eyes, however, and noting the in- 
quiring candor and sweet innocence of their expression, 
he answered manfully: 

“They say you are very young, and very pretty. You 
could hardly expect them to say or to think anything else, 
could you?” 

She smiled and blushed. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” she said. “You see, I thought 
they might think me — well, funny !” 

He stared. 

“Funny?” 

“Yes. Because it does seem funny, doesn’t it, for such 
a little thing as I am to be a married woman? Some 
people must think it curious. Fancy — a married woman ! 
Oh, I am quite old enough — I am twenty — but I don’t 
seem to be tall enough or big enough !” and she spread 
out her pretty hands expressively and with a charming 
smile. “I don’t know quite where I got all my silly ideas 
from, but when I was at school I used to think a married 
woman meant somebody fat and important-looking, who 
always wore a cap at breakfast, and a bow of velvet on 
the exact top of her head by way of full dress at dinner. 
I did, really!” and her eyes sparkled at the sound of 
Fane’s joyous laughter. “Of course, I know better now ; 

but, then ” Here she broke off as she saw the easel 

just in front of her with the unfinished sketch upon it. 
She looked at it long and earnestly, and Fane watched 


199 


The Withering of a Rose. 

her, feeling somewhat curious to know what sort of criti- 
cism this baby-faced creature would pass upon it. She 
studied it from every point with close attention, and her 
eyes grew soft and serious. 

"It is very human,” she said, at last. "The poor split 
tree tells its own history. You can see it did not know 
anything — it grew up quite happily, always looking at 
the sky and believing that no harm could befall it, till 
all at once the lightning struck it to the heart and killed 
it. And in this picture of yours it seems to ask, ‘Was 
it my fault that I fell?’ Of course, you mean it as an 
emblem of some ruined life, do you not?” 

He heard her with a certain wonder and reverence — 
her voice was so very sweet and grave. 

"I cannot say I ever thought of it in the way you see 
it,” he answered; "but I am very glad and proud, that 
you find so much poetry in my poor effort.” 

"Poetry? Oh, no; I am not at all poetical!” she said, 
quickly, and almost shamefacedly. "I used to be rather 
fond of reading Keats and Byron, but I never do that 
now — my husband does not like it.” 

"Indeed !” murmured Fane, vaguely, wishing he could 
make a picture of her as she stood before him in her 
little white gown, with a picturesque, broad-brimmed hat 
resting on the sunny curls of her abundant hair. 

"No,” she went on confidingly, “he thinks it such non- 
sense ! You see, he is a very clever man, and' very scien- 
tific. He reads all the heavy magazines, and thinks it is 


200 


The Withering of a Rose. 


very silly to waste time on studying verse, when one can 
have so much prose.” 

“Yes, there certainly is a good deal of prose about,” 
said Fane. 

At that moment a shadow crossed the sunlight in which 
they stood, and Mr. Allingham suddenly made his ap- 
pearance. 

“Why, Harold !” exclaimed his wife, springing towards 
him ; “I thought you had gone into the town !” 

“I have been into the town,” he replied, frigidly, “but 
I returned a few minutes ago. Perhaps you are not 
aware it is nearly our lunch hour?” Then, with a stand- 
offish yet would-be patronizing air, addressing himself 
to Fane, “You are an artist, -sir?” 

“I do a little in that way,” replied the young man, 
modestly. “Mrs. Allington happened to pass by while 
I was at work, and she has been kind enough to look at 
my sketch.” 

“Ah — yes — er — yes! Very good, indeed!” murmured 
Mr. Allington, scarcely glancing at the picture as he 
spoke. “Rose, it is time we went in. You are staying 
at our hotel, are you not, Mr. — er — Mr. ” 

“Fane,” said that gentleman, mildly. 

“Fane; oh! ah — yes. I think I have heard of you in 
London. You have exhibited, have you not?” 

“Frequently.” 

“Oh, yes, er — I remember. Charmed — charmed to 
meet you ! Are you coming our way now ?” 


The Withering of a Rose. 201 

“No,” said Fane, rather brusquely; “I must finish my 
work.” 

And he raised his hat courteously as husband and wife 
in their turn saluted him and walked away together. He 
looked after them for some minutes, noting with an 
artist’s eye the swaying, youthful grace of the woman’s 
dainty figure and the stiff, uncompromising squareness of 
the man’s. 

“Ill-matched in every way,” he said to himself. “She 
is too young, and he is too — conceited.” 

That same evening he was somewhat surprised when 
Mr. Allingham came up to him with almost an air of cor- 
diality, and invited him to take coffee, and a smoke after- 
wards, in that private part of the “Gutsch” veranda which 
had been specially partitioned off for the sole use and 
benefit of the newly-wedded pair. He went, and was 
shyly welcomed by Mrs. Allingham, who looked more like 
a small lost angel than ever, attired in a loose tea-gown 
of silky white, adorned with old lace, and sleeves of deli- 
cate chiffon. She sat a little apart, looking out through 
the creepers which festooned the veranda at the full 
moon sailing slowly through white clouds over the heights 
of Sonnenberg. 

“Mrs. Allingham does not object to smoke?” said Fane, 
courteously, before lighting his cigar. She turned her 
head, surprised ; her husband laughed. 

“Well, I never asked her,” he said. “Rose, do you 
hear? Do you object to smoke?” 

“Object? I? Oh, no!” she faltered; “not at all!” 


202 


The Withering of a Rose. 


Her husband laughed again and passed the liqueurs to 
his guest, who, however, helped himself very sparingly. 
Allingham drank off some cognac, and began to talk, 
and presently brought round the conversation to the sub- 
ject of his place in Norfolk — Dunscombe Hall. 

“I have been looking,” he said, with a pompous air, 
“for a competent person to make sketches of the place. 
Now, I believe, if I am not mistaken, that you are on the 
staff of one of the pictorials?” 

Fane admitted the fact. 

“Then you would be the very man for me. I should 
not at all mind giving you the job if you would care to 
undertake it.” 

It was on the tip of Fane’s tongue to say that he would 

see him d d first, for the man’s tone was so bumptious 

and patronizing as to be distinctly offensive. But, glanc- 
ing at the delicate profile of the girl who leaned out 
among the clambering vines, looking at the solemn beauty 
of the night, he restrained himself by an effort. 

“If my engagements will allow me to accept any extra 
work I shall not object,” he answered, stiffly; “but I 
should have to communicate with my editor first.” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Allingham, com- 
placently. “Only if you do it at all you must do it in 
October. If you can’t arrange that, I must get somebody 
else. Dunscombe Hall is a very fine subject for an 
artist’s pencil. It used to be a monastery, and there are 
still some ruins of the old cloisters in the grounds. And 


The Withering of a Rose. 203 

there is a showy bit of sketching always at hand in the 
Haunted Mere.” 

“Is it haunted?” 

“Well, they say so,” replied Allingham, lighting his 
cigar. “I’ve never seen the ghost myself, but I am told 
that whenever there is to be a death in the family a lady 
appears in a boat on the water and beckons the departing 
spirit. All nonsense, of course. But I rather like a 
famijy ghost.” 

“And you?” asked Fane of Mrs. Allingham, seeing that 
she had turned toward them and was listening atten- 
tively. 

“I cannot quite tell whether I do or not,” she said, 
slowly, and he fancied he saw her tremble. “I have never 
been in a haunted house to my knowledge, and, of course, 
it will be a new experience.” She forced a little smile. 
“I did not know Dunscombe Hall had a ghost.” 

“Well, you know now,” said her husband, cheerfully. 
“But it is a ghost that never comes indoors. And the 
Haunted Mere is a mile off from the house, so no one is 
likely to make its acquaintance. You will let me know 
in good time, Mr. Fane, as to whether you can under- 
take my commission or not?” 

“Certainly.” 

The conversation then changed to other matters, and 
when they parted for the night Fane thought Mrs. Alling- 
ham looked very tired and sad. A great pity filled his 
heart for the winsome little creature who seemed made 
for special tenderness and care, and who, despite the fact 


204 


The Withering of a Rose. 


of her married dignity, had such an air of pathetic loneli- 
ness about her. 

“Poor little woman !” he murmured, as he strolled out 
by himself in the warm moonlight before going to bed. 
“She has got a perfectly irreproachable, commonplace 
prig for a husband. He will never do' her any harm 
openly — never grudge her anything — never scandalize her 
in the least — and yet ” 

“He did not pursue the train of his reflections. He 
glanced at the moon, the tall, straight pine trees, the dewy 
turf ; then, with a sigh over what he, as a modern pessi- 
mist, was disposed to consider the “fairness and futility” 
of creation generally, forgot everything in a sound and 
dreamless sleep. 

During the rest of their stay at the “Pension Gutsch” 
Mr. Fane saw a good deal of the Allinghams. Moved 
by the consideration that the artist was a man not un- 
known to fame, Mr. Allingham unbent towards him as 
much as so important a person could be expected to un- 
bend, and even condescended to take a few “excursions,” 
such as he had once declared he hated, in his new ac- 
quaintance’s company. They parted in August — Mr. and 
Mrs. Allingham to return to England, and the stately 
attractions of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk, and Fane to 
make a climbing tour in the Tyrol. They left the “Gutsch” 
all together on the same day, jogging down the steep de- 
clivity for the last time in the odd little cog-wheel car. 

“It is like coming down from heaven!” said Rose 


205 


The Withering of a Rose. 

Allingham, looking wistfully up at the receding pine 
trees, bending to and fro like tall plumes on the height. 

“Let us hope we are not going to the ‘rival region !’ ” 
laughed Fane. “You liked the “Gutsch,” then, Mrs. Al- 
lingham ?” 

“Very much,” she answered. 

“It is a fairly pleasant place for a short sojourn,” said 
her husband, disparagingly. “Very monotonous, of 
course. I should never care to go there again.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” murmured Rose, timidly. “Oh, I 
should !” 

“No doubt!” retorted her husband, with a hard smile. 
“But, then, you see, I shouldn’t.” And he began to read 
a London paper two days old, which had arrived for him 
that morning. 

At Lucerne station they said good-by to Fane, Mr. Al- 
lingham expressing his hope in language that savored 
more of command than entreaty, that the artist would 
undertake his “commission” in October to sketch the 
various beauties of Dunscombe Hall. 

“As to terms,” he said, loftily, “I think we need not 
mention them, as nothing of that sort will stand in your 
way or mine. Whatever you choose to fix I shall very 
willingly agree to.” 

The young man flushed a little, but said nothing. Shak- 
ing hands again with Mrs. Allingham, h’e presented her 
with a pretty bunch of Alpine blue gentians and edelweiss 
as a parting “souvenir,” and, lifting his hat, remained 
uncovered till the train had steamed off. 


20 6 The Withering of a Rose. 

“If it were not for her,” he mused, “I would see Duns- 
combe Hall and its priggish owner at Jericho' before I’d 
go near either of them. As it is — well — I’ll think 
about it.” 

September passed in a glorious blaze of beauty and 
perfect weather; and by the time October was a week 
old, his “thinking about it” had resolved into a definite 
course of action. So that, on one solemn and shadowy 
evening, when the smell of falling leaves was in the air, 
and the indefinable melancholy of autumn darkened the 
landscape even as a sad thought darkens a bright face, 
he was driven under the frowning and picturesque gate- 
way of Dunscombe Hall, and up the fine but rather 
gloomy avenue of ancient elms that led to the stately 
building. The carriage had been sent to meet him at 
the station, and when he finally arrived and got out 
at the door of the house, he was received by a digni- 
fied man-servant in dark livery, who informed him that 
Mr. Allingham had been obliged to go out for an 
hour, but that Mrs. Allingham was “waiting tea” for 
him in the drawing-room. To the drawing-room he was 
therefore shown; and such was the size and antique 
splendor of that vast apartment, that for a moment he 
could scarcely perceive his young hostess, who at the 
announcement of his name came forward to meet him. 
And when he did realize her presence, such a shock of 
pain went through him that he could scarcely speak. The 
change wrought in her during a space of barely two 
months was so terrible, that he could only stammer out 


207 


The Withering of a Rose. 

some unintelligible words, press her small, cold hand, and 
gaze at her wonderingly. She meanwhile met his pity- 
ing, inquiring regard with a gentle patience in her own 
eyes. 

“I see,” she said, with a faint smile, “you think I am 
looking ill, don’t you? Yes — everybody does. It is quite 
true I am not well — I fancy sometimes this place” — and 
a light shiver ran through her — “does not agree with 
me. It is very, very big” — here she laughed — “and I 
am very small. I am sure a little woman ought to live in 
a little house to be comfortable. But I have a very good 
doctor — so kind and clever — he says it is only want of 
tone and a little heart-weakness — that’s all. Come and 
have some tea — there’s a fire at this end of the room.” 

She led the way to a sort of “cosy corner,” where light 
and warmth were concentrated near a tea-table set out 
with Queen Anne silver and Sevres china ; and, sitting in 
a low chair opposite her, Fane watched her in compas- 
sionate silence.' 

If she had looked a child before, she seemed more 
than ever one now — she had grown so thin and pale and 
fragile, that it seemed as if the merest puff of wind would 
blow her out of existence altogether. Her little hands, 
waxen-white and delicate, were scarcely equal to the task 
of lifting the teapot to pour out the tea; but, as she 
busied herself with her hospitable duties, a faint color 
came into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled more brightly. 

“Isn’t this a huge room ?” she said, as she passed Fane 
his cup. “It’s meant for hundreds of people, you know 


208 The Withering of a Rose. 

— people in powdered wigs and court suits. I don’t 
think it accommodates itself to modern life at all.” 

“It is indeed enormous!” and Fane glanced up and 
down and round about him. “The ceiling appears to be 
frescoed.” 

“Oh, yes, it is wonderful. Quite horrid, in my opin- 
ion — but Mr. Allingham says it is marvelous. Any num- 
ber of fat goddesses and Cupids. You will see it much 
better by day-light. We have no gas in this room, be- 
cause it would spoil the fresco — that is why it is always 
so dark. To light it up we should have to put candles in 
all those four big Venetian chandeliers ; and each one of 
them holds two hundred lights.” 

“No economy in candles there!” said Fane, laughing. 

“No, indeed ! But, of course, we never have occasion 
to light it up — we never give parties ; there are not 
enough people in the neighborhood to come to them if 
we did.” 

“How far are you from Sandringham?” he inquired. 

“Oh, a long way. We are just conveniently out of the 
reach of everybody worth knowing, and everything that 
is going on.” 

And she laughed, a trifle bitterly. 

“It must be rather dull at times,” he said, studying her 
changed face attentively. “You should get some friends 
to come and stay with you — a jolly house-party.” 

“Oh, Mr. Allingham would never hear of such a 
thing,” she said quickly. “He cannot bear to have a 
number of people about him. My mother came down 


209 


The Withering of a Rose. 

for a short time in September, but she declared the house 
was damp and gave her rheumatism. She went back to 
London after about a week, and then I fell ill.” 

‘‘What was the matter with you?” he asked sympa- 
thetically. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“All sorts of things — fainting-fits, weakness, nerves — 
disagreeableness generally. Here is Harold.” 

She broke off her conversation with Fane directly her 
husband entered the room, and seemed to shrink into her- 
self, like a sensitive plant too roughly handled. Ailing- 
ham himself was the same as ever — irreproachable in 
dress, demeanor, and what is understood by a portion of 
society as “gentlemanliness.” He greeted Fane with 
exactly the correctly measured air of cordiality — namely, 
that of the wealthy host and encouraging patron — and it 
was an air that galled the young artist’s pride consider- 
ably, though he was careful for Mrs. Allingham’s peace 
and comfort to show no offense. He certainly could not 
complain of his entertainment. He had a suite of rooms 
to himself and perfect liberty of action; he breakfasted, 
lunched and dined at a table appointed with the costliest 
luxuries; a carriage was at his disposal whenever he 
needed it; and Mr. Allingham had, furthermore, given 
him the choice of any horse in his stables, should he care 
for riding. He had engaged to make two dozen sketches 
of Dunscombe Hall from all the different points of view, 
and when once he began his work he became almost en- 
tirely engrossed in it. 


210 


The Withering of a Rose. 


The place was undoubtedly a fine object for any 
artist’s study — its architecture was well-nigh perfect, and 
all the surroundings were eminently picturesque, though 
indubitably of a solitary and melancholy character. He 
did not see as much of Mrs. Allingham as he could have 
wished. She was often ailing, and though she invariably 
exerted herself to appear at dinner, there were times 
when she was not equal even to the effort, and her hus- 
band, seated in solitary state at his glittering board, 
would make formal excuses for her absence. 

“My wife is very young,” he would explain, ponder- 
ously, “and is therefore inclined to give way to any 
trifling ailment. The doctor assures me she is suffering 
merely from a little want of tone, and the autumnal air 
depresses her ; there is nothing at all serious the matter.” 

“She looks extremely ill,” said Fane impulsively. 

“You think so?” and Mr. Allingham smiled indul- 
gently. “I expect you are not accustomed to the ways 
of women; they put their looks on and off as easily as 
their gowns. In her present nervous condition of health 
it quite depends on Mrs. Allingham’s own humor as to 
whether she looks well or ill — it has nothing whatever to 
do with any actually real organic mischief.” 

Fane swallowed a glass of wine hastily to keep down 
the angry remark that rose to his lips, for the cold cal- 
lousness of his host was almost more than he could bear. 
Reflecting quickly, however, that it was not his business 
to interfere, and that, the less he said the better for Mrs. 
Allingham, he was silent. 


21 1 


The Withering of a Rose. 

“You have not tried your hand yet at the Haunted 
Mere?” inquired Mr. Allingham, presently. 

“No. I — er — the fact is — I have not yet had time to 
go and look at it.” 

“True — you have been very much occupied with the 
house itself” — and Mr. Allingham nodded approvingly — 
“and your work is admirable — quite admirable! But I 
should suggest your visiting the Mere before the foliage 
quite falls. I fancy you will find it well worth your 
study.” 

“I will go to-morrow,” said Fane. 

And on the morrow he went. He started early in the 
morning, one of the gardeners directing him as to which 
path to follow. When he came in full sight of the glit- 
tering sheet of water he could scarcely refrain from utter- 
ing a cry of rapture. It was so mystically beautiful ; the 
deep solitude surrounding it was so intense and un- 
broken, that he no longer wondered at the reputation it 
had of being “haunted.” Grand old willow trees, with 
gnarled trunks and knotty stems bent above its glassy 
surface, and beyond it in the distance the land rolled 
away in gentle undulations of green and brown, relieved 
here and there with a clump of stately elms, or a tangle 
of bright yellow furze. The place was so still that not 
even the twitter of a bird broke the breathless calm — 
and, powerfully impressed by the whole scene, Fane 
took a rapid pencil sketch in outline to begin with, his 
ultimate intention being to make a large picture of it, 
with a view to exhibition in one of the London galleries. 


212 


The Withering of a Rose. 

Returning rapidly to the house, to finish what he had 
commenced the previous day, he met Mrs. Allingham 
walking slowly to and fro on the terrace. 

“Have you been to the ‘Haunted Mere?’ ” she asked, 
smiling. 

For a moment he could not speak. The weary pathos 
of her young face, the fatigue of her soft eyes, the list- 
less expression of her very figure, all this went to his 
heart, and made him pity her as he had never pitied 
any woman. He felt her to be no more than a little tired- 
out child — a child longing to be taken up in tender arms 
and gently carried home. There was a slight tremble 
in his voice as he answered, with an effort at playful- 
ness : 

“Yes, I have seen the Mere, but not the ghost. Do 
you know, Mrs. Allingham, I begin to think you must 
be the ghost — you look like one this morning.” 

“Do I? I’m sorry. I hate to be ill — my husband 
doesn’t like it. I wish I could get strong more quickly.” 

“Are you feeling worse, then, to-day?” asked Fane, 
with a touch of real anxiety in his tone, which made her 
look at him in grateful wonder. 

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am only a little ‘run down,’ 
as the doctor says, and weak. Harold declares it is all 
woman’s nonsense, and thinks I don’t exert myself to get 
well ; but indeed I do. It is very kind of you to take so 
much interest ” 

“Kind!” echoed Fane, almost irritably; then, glancing 
about him to make sure there was no one in sight, he 


213 


The Withering of a Rose. 

approached her more closely. “Look here, Mrs. Ailing- 
ham, do forgive me if I seem officious or impertinent, 
but I can’t help asking you this one question — are you 
quite happy?” 

She glanced up at him almost affrightedly, and meet- 
ing his friendly eyes, her own filled with sudden tears. 

“No, I am not,” she faltered. “But it is wicked of me 
to say so, because you see it is quite my own fault. I 
ought to be happy — I have everything I want.” 

“Except — love !” said Fane, in a half whisper, strug- 
gling mentally with the insane desire that had suddenly 
seized him, to take this pale little child-woman in his 
arms and show her what the tenderness of love could be. 

She looked at him half reproachfully. 

“I think you mistake,” she said, gently, with a curi- 
ously sad little old-world air of dignity. “Harold loves 
me very much in— his own way. He is not of a demon- 
strative nature.” 

Fane was silent. Presently she resumed in the same 
gentle accents. 

“It is not his fault; indeed, it is nobody’s fault that I 
do not feel as happy as I ought to do. It is something 
in my own temperament. I fancy that perhaps I am too 
young to be married; not in years, I mean, but in feel- 
ing and education. You see, being quite small and slight, 
as I am, I have always been treated as more or less of a 
child. Even when I came home from being presented 
at the Queen’s drawing-room, and fainted away all in 
a heap on the stairs, my mother called me a ‘poor baby.’ 


214 The Withering of a Rose. 

You remember what I told you at the ‘Gutsch?’ — how I 
had always imagined that married women must be big 
and fat, and important? Well, really they are, as a* rule, 
and I am so different! All the married ladies in this 
neighborhood, for instance, look upon me as quite an 
absurdity.” 

“Then they are very impudent and ill-bred,” said Fane 
hotly. 

“Oh, no, they’re not,” and she laughed a little. “They 
come and call on regular days, and ask me if I am equal 
to the management of such a large house? Do I not 
find the servants a great trial? Have I a strong con- 
stitution? One lady always surveys me mournfully 
through her pince-nez, and says, ‘You are very young 
to have secured such a magnificent establishment.’ And 
that is quite true! Dunscombe Hall is magnificent — 
don’t you think so?” 

They paused on the terrace just at a point which 
faced the extensive left wing of the grand old pile. 
Carved escutcheons, flying buttresses, and heraldic de- 
vices were all thrown up into sharp prominence by the 
mellow rays of the autumnal noonday sun, and immedi- 
ately opposite them was the sculptured figure of a war- 
rior-saint in a Gothic niche, festooned with clambering 
white roses, whose delicate blossoms surrounded and 
softened the statue’s frigid aspect of frozen prayer. 

Fane shivered slightly. “Yes,” he said in a tone of one 
who makes reluctant admission. “It is a fine old place. 
But its character is distinctly melancholy. It is not a 


The Withering of a Rose. 215 

Beethoven ‘Sonata’ or a Mendelssohn ‘Lied’ — it is one 
of Chopin’s most mournful ‘Nocturnes.’ ” 

Rose Allingham gave him a quick glance of perfect 
comprehension, but said nothing in reply. Moving in 
her light, bird-like way across the terrace, she gathered 
one of the roses that hung near the statue in the niche 
and gave it to him. He had scarcely taken it from her 
before its leaves fell in a white fragrant shower at his 
feet. She smiled a little forcedly. 

“I was afraid of that,” she said. ‘‘They are all on the 
very point of falling. I will not give you another from 
that tree. This afternoon — or to-morrow — I will get you 
one from the rosery; they are in better condition there. 
Now I must not detain you from your work any longer ; 
you want all the daylight possible. Have you got this 
old stone saint in any of your sketches yet ?” 

“Not yet,” he answered abstractedly, looking first at 
her and then at the petals of the fallen rose. 

“Oh, I hope you will put him in somewhere !” she ex- 
claimed, almost playfully. “He is such a dear old thing ! 
You seem quite melancholy over that wasted rose.” 

“I am,” he admitted. “I hate to see any beautiful 
thing perish.” 

“But, then, so many beautiful things do perish,” she 
said, with a musing regret in her eyes. “One must get 
accustomed to that. You recollect your picture of the 
great pine tree on the ‘Gutsch,’ split through by light- 
ning? That suggested to me the ruin of a noble life. 
Well, all these little white roses that fall so easily at a 


2 i 6 The Withering of a Rose. 

touch, they are to me the emblems of just such a num- 
ber of little lives ; quite little lives, you know, of no actual 
use to anybody ; only just pretty and fragrant and harm- 
less, that at a rough touch or hasty misunderstanding 
drop to pieces and sink into the ground unnoticed and 
unmissed. I believe each little rose has its own little 
secret sadness.” 

She smiled and waved her hand to him, as she moved 
away slowly and re-entered the house. 

When she was quite out of sight Fane, moved by some 
odd sentiment which he could not himself analyze, 
picked up every one of the fallen rose-petals and put 
them in his pocket-book. Then he set about sketching 
the ancient sculptured saint, while the sun was still bright 
on its weather-beaten features and piously folded hands. 

The next day was the first of November, the “Feast of 
All Saints.” The weather was beautifully clear and 
warm, and Fane went out early, without even seeing his 
host and patron as usual, in order to profit by the clear- 
ness of the atmosphere and get a long day’s steady work, 
When he returned in time for the late dinner he heard 
that Mrs. Allingham had been seized with a succession 
of fainting fits, and that the doctor had been sent for. 
Greatly disconcerted by this news he entered the dining- 
room full of eager and sympathetic inquiries, but found 
his host so bland and calm, and so perfectly satisfied 
that there was no cause whatever for anxiety as to his 
young wife’s condition, that he felt it would be deemed 


217 


The Withering of a Rose. 

odd and out of place if he, as a visitor and “paid artist,” 
had exhibited any unduly great concern. 

“It is mere weakness and nervous prostration,” said 
Mr. Allingham, drinking his champagne with relish as 
he spoke, “and in these cases fainting fits are a relief 
rather than a danger. I am sorry Rose has allowed her- 
self to run down in this way. I am afraid it will neces- 
sitate my going with her to the sea-side for a short time. 
It would be particularly inconvenient to me just now — 
but if it must be done it must/’ 

Fane could not speak. He gulped his food and wine 
down hastily with such a sense of impotent rage as al- 
most choked him. He could scarcely bear to look at the 
composed, sleek, self-satisfied man beside him, attired 
as was his usual evening custom in irreproachable dress- 
suit, starchy shirt and white tie — he would have liked to 
knock him down and trample on him. As soon as din- 
ner was ended, he left the room with a muttered, hasty 
excuse about “having letters to write,” and went out in 
the soft night air to smoke by himself and “cool down,” 
as he inwardly expressed it, for his feelings were in a 
perfect tumult. Pity and anxiety for Mrs. Allingham, 
and contempt for her husband, struggled for the mas- 
tery in his mind ; and he walked on and on through the 
grounds under the light of a full moon, not heeding 
where he was going to in the heat of his wrath and ex- 
citement. 

“I can’t stand it!” he said, half aloud, at last. “I’ll 
leave the place to-morrow ! I can finish the sketches at 


218 The Withering of a Rose. 

home now — I’ve got enough material to go upon. If I 
stay here any longer I shall come to fisticuffs with that 
egotistical prig, or — or — otherwise make a fool of my- 
self.” 

A sudden shiver ran through him; and conscious of 
a certain dampness and unpleasant chill in the air, he 
stopped abruptly to see whither he had come. 

To his amazement, right in front of him stretched the 
“Haunted Mere,” glittering like polished steel in the sil- 
ver rays of the moon. Something there was in the weird 
aspect of the still water and the twisted willows that im- 
pressed him with a sense of awe ; and, as though a cold 
hand had been laid upon his heart, his anger died away 
into a dull, aching pain. He stood like one hypnotized, 
staring vaguely at the Mere, disinclined to move, and 
scarcely capable of thought. And as he remained thus, 
waiting for he knew not what, he saw distinctly a pale 
shadow fall like the reflection of a cloud across the shin- 
ing width of water — a shadow that darkened slowly and 
grew, as it were, palpably into the shape of a small boat 
with a curved and curiously luminous prow; straining 
his eyes he watched, every nerve in his body throbbing 
with fear. The boat began to move out of shadow into 
moonlight, and as it moved it showed its spectral occu- 
pant — a woman’s figure veiled completely in misty 
white, that stood erect and waved its arms beckoningly 
toward the turret of Dunscombe Hall. Reaching the 
very middle of the Mere, where in the moonlight shone 
broadest and brightest, the ghostly skiff paused on the 


219 


The Withering of a Rose. 

water motionless. Again and yet again the veiled phan- 
tom waved its arms appealingly, commandingly ; then, 
like a wreath of mist or smoke, it vanished ! 

Released from the terrible tension of his nerves, Fane 
uttered a loud cry ; it was echoed among the dark woods 
and answered by the mournful hooting of owls. All at 
once he remembered the legend — that the ghost of Duns- 
combe Hall was said only to appear when death threat- 
ened some member of the family. 

“My God !” he exclaimed, “can it be possible !” 

And without waiting to think another moment he 
turned and ran, ran as though he were running a race for 
life, straight back to the Hall. Breathlessly rushing 
through the dark, antiquated porch, he jostled against a 
man coming out. 

“Mr. Allingham ” he began. 

“I am not Mr. Allingham,” said the stranger, “I am 
Dr. Dean.” 

“The doctor? Oh, then ” and he leaned back 

against a pillar of the porch to recover breath and 
equanimity; “Mrs. Allingham is ” 

“Dead/' said the doctor, gently. 


TINY TRAMPS. 


The idea of childhood is generally associated in our 
minds with mirth, grace and beauty. The fair-haired, 
blue-eyed treasures of proud and tender mothers; the 
plump, rosy little ones whose fresh young hearts know 
no sorrow save the sometimes ungratified longing for 
a new toy or new game — these are the fairy blossoms of 
our lives, for whom childhood really exists, and for 
whose dear sakes we think no sacrifice too great, no pain 
too wearisome, no work too heavy, so long as we can 
keep them in health, strength and happiness, and ward 
off from their lives every shadow of suffering. And as 
we caress our own dimpled darlings, and listen to their 
merry, prattling voices and their delightful laughter, we 
find it difficult to realize that there are other 1 children in 
the world, born of the same great Mother Nature, who 
live on without even knowing that they are children, and 
who have “begun life” in the bitterest manner at a time 
when they can scarcely toddle ; children to whom toys are 
inexplicable mysteries, and for whom the bright regions 
of fairyland have never been unclosed. 

These poor little waifs and strays, no matter how 
young they are in years, are old — one might almost say 
they were born old — they are familiar with the dark and 


221 


Tiny Tramps. 

crooked paths of life, and the broad, shining, golden 
road of love, duty, wisdom and peace has never been 
pointed out to their straying little feet. 

Homes for destitute children may and do exist, refuges 
and charities of all kinds are open to those who seek 
them ; and yet, in spite of all that has been done, or is do- 
ing, poor child-wanderers walk the earth, and meet us in 
streets and country roads, clothed in rags, their pinched 
faces begrimed with dirt and tears, and their tiny voices 
attuned to the beggar’s whine, while too often, alas ! their 
young hearts are already withered by the corroding in- 
fluences of deceit and cunning. 

The other day one of these tiny tramps came to my 
door, and implored in piteous accents for a crust of bread. 
He was a pretty little fellow of some seven or eight years 
old, and his blue eyes looked bright with innocence and 
trust. His tiny, naked feet were cracked and sore, and 
covered with mud, and his clothes were in so dirty and 
ragged a condition that it seemed a miracle how they 
could hang together at all. Through the large holes in 
these wretched garments, however, might be seen many 
pretty glimpses of soft pink and white skin, and his face 
was as plump and fair and rosy as the fondest mother 
could desire it to be. Nevertheless, he assured me in the 
most mournful manner that he was very cold and hungry, 
and that his feet were so very sore he could scarcely 
stand; so, without more ado, we took him into the 
kitchen, bathed his feet for him in refreshing warm wa- 
ter, and provided him with a warm pair of stockings and 


222 


Tiny Tramps. 

a strong pair of boots. Then we put him on a chair by 
the fire, and feasted him with a large bowl of barley- 
broth, which he appeared to enjoy exceedingly. A piece 
of cake was then given to him as a concluding relish, and 
when he had quite finished his meal, I asked him where 
he was going. 

My small tramp screwed his knuckles into his eyes, and 
mournfully replied : “Home.” 

“Where is home?” I inquired. 

“With mother.” 

“And where does mother live?” 

“Please, ’m, she lives on the road.” 

“Lives on the road !” I exclaimed ; “but where does she 
sleep ?” 

“On the road, ’m, please, ’m.” 

I looked at the small waif in silence. He met my 
glance with a weird upraising of his eyes and eyebrows, 
which gave him an expression that was half-plaintive, 
half-cunning. 

“What road does she live on?” I asked. 

“Please, ’m, any road as comes ’andy.” 

I sighed involuntarily. He was such a pretty child; 
and what a life seemed in store for him ! 

“What does your mother do?” I continued. 

“Please, ’m, she sells buttings.” 

“Buttings ?” 

“Yes, ’m; buttings, an’ ’ooks an' ’ise.” 

Buttons, and hooks and eyes. I knew the kind of 


Tiny Tramps. 


223 


woman she must be — bold, slovenly, and dirty; most 
likely wearing a flashy bonnet on one side of her head, 
and brass rings on her fingers. A woman with a carney- 
ing voice, with which she insinuated herself into the good 
graces of servants, and persuaded them to purchase her 
trumpery goods. 

“Have you a father?” I asked. 

“Yes, ’m. He gits drunk, ’m.” 

Dismissing the idea of the father at once, I continued 
my catechizing. 

“Why doesn’t your mother send you to school?” 

“I dunno, ’m.” Here the small knuckles were screwed 
into the eyes more violently than ever. 

“Where is your mother now?” 

“I dunno, ’m ” 

“Well, then, how are you going to find her?” 

“I dunno, ’m. I kin try.” 

“Do you know where to try?” 

“Yes, ’m. I knows her pub.” 

“Do you mean the public-house?” 

“Yes, ’m, please, ’m.” And, as if the recollection of 
the “pub” had suddenly aroused him to action, the litttle 
forlorn wanderer slipped off his chair by the fire and 
prepared to start. I fastened an old, warm, cloth jacket 
round him, and, turning his little rosy face up that I 
might survey it closely, I said: 

“Now, suppose you cannot find your mother, will you 
come back here? I’ll take care of you till we can find 


224 Tiny Tramps. 

her for you, and you shall have some more cake. Do you 
understand ?” 

“Yes, ’m .” 

“Stop a minute,” I said; and, seizing a scrap of paper, 
I hastily wrote the words: “Should you wish this child 
taken care of, put to school, and brought up to earn an 
honest livelihood, you can call at this house any day 
during the next three weeks and, adding my name and 
address, I sealed the paper carefully. Then putting it in 
the pocket of the jacket I had just given him, I again ad- 
dressed my small tramp: 

“Will you give that letter to your mother when you 
find her?” 

He looked decidedly astonished, and somewhat doubt- 
ful about the propriety of acceding to this request; but 
after a moment of consideration he gave me his invariable 
reply : 

“Yes, ’m, please, ’m.” 

Raising the child in my arms, I kissed his rosy, intelli- 
gent face, my heart swelling with pity for his hard fate, 
and then I led him to the front door. He made a kind 
of attempt at a salute, by pulling one of his chestnut 
curls into his eyes, and then scrambled down the steps 
and ran away, while I rushed to my window, which com- 
mands an entire view of the street, and watched him. 
He looked round now and then to see if any one were near, 
and, finding the road pretty well deserted, he finally 
seated himself on a doorstep, and I was able to observe 


Tiny Tramps. 225 

the whole of his proceedings, which filled me with the 
greatest surprise and dismay. 

The first thing he did was to take off the boots and 
stockings with which he had been provided, and to tie 
them in a bunch together. He then deliberately walked 
into a heap of the thickest black mud he could find, and 
tramped and splashed about therein till the feet, which 
had been so nicely washed, were as black and grimy as 
they could well be. This done, he took off the warm 
jacket, and, rolling it up in as small a bundle as he could 
manage to make, he tucked it under his arm ; then giving 
himself two or three dexterous shakes, which had the effect 
of displaying the large holes in his own tattered garments 
to the best advantage, he uttered a sort of wild whoop 
or yell, and, scampering up the street as fast as he could 
go, he disappeared from my sight. I knew his destina- 
tion as well as if it had been told to me then and there. 
He was going to convert that jacket and those boots and 
stockings into money at the nearest old-clothes shop, and 
then he would, no doubt, hasten to his mother’s “pub,” 
and detail to her his successful morning’s adventure. 
She would take the money obtained for the clothes, and, 
perhaps, give the child twopence for himself as reward 
for his smartness, and there would be an end ; while cer- 
tainly the letter I had prepared would never be thought 
of or even discovered unless by some old Jew salesman, 
who would not comprehend its meaning. Yet, could I 
blame the poor little tramp for his behavior? No, in- 
deed ; I only pitied the unfortunate child more than ever. 


226 Tiny Tramps. 

Trained to deceive as thoroughly as happier children are 
trained to speak the truth, could anything else have been 
reasonably expected of him? It would have been a real 
matter for surprise had he acted differently. Still, I was 
foolish enough to feel somewhat disappointed, for the 
boy’s face had attracted me. It is curious, too, to ob- 
serve how very many attractive child-faces there are 
among the little vagrants of the London streets. Chil- 
dren with beautiful eyes and hair — children whose flesh 
is a perfect marvel of softness and fair delicacy, in spite 
of the dirt that grimes them from top to toe — and chil- 
dren whose limbs are so gracefully and finely formed, and 
whose whole manner and bearing are so indescribably 
lofty that one would almost deem them to have been born 
in purple. An excellent type of the tramp aristocracy 
came to me one morning in the shape of an Italian boy 
of about ten or eleven years of age, who strolled under 
my window, twanging prettily enough the chords of a 
much-used, far-traveled, but still sweet-toned mandoline. 
I have always an extra soft heart for these straying min- 
strels from the sunny land of song, and I immediately 
called him, and entered into conversation with him. He 
told me he had traveled far and earned little, and that he 
seldom had enough to eat ; but he was merry. “Oh, yes,” 
he said, smiling his bright southern smile, “he was al- 
ways hopeful and light-hearted.” 

Some peculiarity in his accent impelled me to ask him 
if he were not from Lombardy, and never shall I forget 
the superb gesture of head and the proud flash of his 


Tiny Tramps. 227 

eyes as he drew himself up and replied, with dignity: 
“No, signorina, io son Romano .” (I am a Roman.) 

If he had declared himself an emperor, he could not 
have asserted his position with more dignity. Many a 
languid dandy, dawdling through the saloons of fashion, 
might have envied his grace of figure and princely 
bearing. 

There was a very interesting account once in the pa- 
pers concerning two baby tramps known as “Sally and 
her Bloke.’' Sally was eight, and her boy companion, 
the “Bloke,” was nine. No matter how great the dis- 
tances each had to traverse during the day, in obedience 
to the will of the tyrannical parents or masters who em- 
ployed them to beg, or sell matches in the streets, as sure- 
ly as evening fell these two mites were always found 
together. Some irresistible attraction, some inexplicable 
sympathy, drew them together, and the poor little things 
entertained for each other so harmless, and withal, so true 
an affection that even the coarse companions with whom 
their lot was cast were touched by their behavior, and 
spoke with rough good-nature akin to respect of “Sally 
and her Bloke,” and forbore to interfere with their pretty 
and pathetic little romance. I wondered at the time if 
anything would be done for this forlorn little couple, but 
the matter seems to have died out in mere sentiment, and 
“Sally and her Bloke” will no doubt be left to grow up 
as such children do grow up — in vice and misery. 

It is terrible to think that we must always be doomed 
to see sorrow, ignorance and vice imprinted on the ten- 
der, flower-like faces of the very young, and that there 


228 


Tiny Tramps. 

must always be, in spite of the efforts of the wisest and 
best men, a large majority of babes and children for 
whom there is and can be no hope of good. Must there 
be a perpetual sacrifice of the innocents to the god of all 
evil ? One of the saddest sights to me, among all the sad 
sights of London, is the neglected children who have 
somehow eluded the kindly meant, though occasionally 
stern, grasp of the government officials, and who have 
literally nothing to hope for, nothing to render their lives 
of value to the nation ; and who, as far as their wretched 
parents are concerned, might be better out of the world 
than in it. The streets swarm with such helpless little 
ones, and yet it seems impossible to do more than is be- 
ing done every day. English men and women have ten- 
der hearts, full of pitiful gentleness for the helplessness 
of infancy, and the charities that are instituted for poor 
and neglected children are, I believe, most generously 
supported ; yet, amid such a mass of distress and evil, how 
futile seems all the best work of statesmen and philoso- 
phers! We must, however, continue to hope for better 
times, when every child that is born into the land may 
be recognized as the child of the government no less than 
of its parents, and may be brought to realize its own re- 
sponsible position and value as a servant of the State. 
This was the condition of things in Sparta ; and, though 
the Spartans carried their ideas rather too far, still it 
must be admitted that their system had its foundation in 
very excellent common sense. Whatever rhistakes and 
shortcomings Lycurgus may have had to answer for, it 
is certain that he never would have tolerated baby tramps. 


THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 


“How she sings, poor Miriam ! She is always singing.” 

And the old man who murmured these words raised his 
head in the sunshine where he sat, and listened with an 
expression of pleased attention stealing over his worn 
features. He was very poor, very feeble, very much 
despised by all his neighbors, and generally known as 
“that dirty Jew,” a designation by no means compli- 
mentary, yet happening to fit him exactly. He made no 
secret of being a Jew, neither did he make any attempt 
to be otherwise than dirty. As a matter of fact, he had 
only one suit of clothes, and was hopelessly unable to 
afford another; while the simple operation of washing 
became an involved and troublesome business in the nar- 
row dimensions of the room he occupied, a roof attic no 
bigger than a medium-sized store-cupboard. Indeed, few 
good housekeepers could have been found who would not 
have grumbled at it as being much too “stuffy” for the 
proper preservation of jams and pickles; but he, poor 
human wretch, managed to live and breathe in it resign- 
edly enough, sharing it with the only creature he loved 
in the world, his grandchild Miriam. She it was whose 
full young voice pealed forth just now in rich, round 
notes of music, through which the words ran with the 


230 The Song of Miriam. 

dominating force and fervor of almost operatic declama- 
tion : 

“ ‘O give thanks to the Lord, for He is good, and His 
mercy endureth forever !’ ” 

The voice came from outside the attic, for its owner 
had scrambled through the window and was seated at 
her ease on the sloping roof — a small, picturesque figure 
in ragged clothing, with a mass of dark hair tumbling 
wildly about, and falling so thickly over the face as 
nearly to conceal it from view. A flash of large, bright, 
eager eyes, a glimmer of red lips and white teeth, and the 
tip of a decidedly Jewish nose was all that could be dis- 
cerned of Miriam, as she lounged on the slanting roof 
slates in the full sunlight, swinging her »bare feet idly 
to and fro, and declaiming over and over again, with 
many roulades and brilliant cadenzas : 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and 
His mercy endureth forever ! 

“ ‘Let Israel now confess that His mercy endureth 
forever ! 

“ ‘Let the house of Aaron now say that His mercy 
endureth forever! 

“ ‘Let all that fear the Lord proclaim that His mercy 
endureth forever !’ ” 

Over the crowded chimneys of one of the worst and 
poorest quarters of Paris the grand words echoed in their 
own sonorous Hebrew tongue, and “the dirty Jew,” Reu- 
ben David, listened till a burning moisture began to 


The Song of Miriam. 231 

gather in his half-blind eyes ; and, covering his face with 
one wrinkled hand, he muttered: 

“How long, O Lord — how long ! O that Thou would’st 
rend the heavens and come down, that the eye might per- 
ceive Thee in all Thy glory ! What have we done unto 
Thee, O God of my fathers, that we should be exiled 
from hope? Thy mercy endureth forever! Let me be- 
lieve it so, O God ! Let me believe it while faith is still 
possible.” 

He rose totteringly, and, crossing to the window, put 
his head through its square opening. 

“Miriam ! Miriam !” 

The song ceased, the ragged figure sprang up lightly, 
the mass of dark hair was flung back with a quick move- 
ment, and the face of the child gleamed out like a flower 
from amidst her squalid surroundings. 

“Grandfather!” 

“Come in, child, come in !” said Reuben, gently. “The 
neighbors will not like thy singing so loud.” 

Miriam’s black eyes glistened — her lips laughed, scorn- 
fully. 

“The neighbors ! What do I care ! They will take me 
for one of the cats on the roof, that is all.” 

Nevertheless, she obeyed her grandfather’s mute sign, 
and slipped nimbly through the window into the room, 
where she stood looking up wistfully at the old man’s 
face, while she mechanically twisted a thick strand of her 
black hair round and round her fingers. 

“Is there nothing to eat?” she asked, presently, in an 


232 The Song of Miriam. 

anxious tone. “Not even a crust for you, beloved and 
kind one?” 

Reuben sighed and shook his head. Then, shuffling 
feebly across the room again, he sat down in his accus- 
tomed place on the same chair, in the same resigned and 
patient attitude. 

“There is nothing, child,” he said, “and I am weak and 
faint, else I would go into the streets and beg for food. 
But I fear I cannot move far ; I am stricken useless with 
long fasting.” 

While he thus spoke, Miriam had been swiftly binding 
up her rebellious locks, and now she straightened herself 
with a gesture and look of eloquent determination. She 
had a curiously resolved face for a girl of her age — she 
was barely fourteen. 

“Wait here,” she said; and, with an impulsive move- 
ment, she threw her arms round the old man’s drooping 
figure, and kissed him tenderly. 

“Wait here, and I will go; I will find something; all 
people cannot be hard-hearted and uncharitable. I will 
study the faces as they pass, and see where love looks 
through the eyes, then I will plead for help, and I know 
I shall win my cause! — yes, dear and beloved one! I 
shall come back rich.” 

“Rich !” Old Reuben echoed the word faintly, with a 
flickering smile at the absurdity of the idea. 

“One is rich with enough!” said Miriam, gayly, and, 
opening the door, she waved her hand and darted away. 

Her grandfather, left to himself, let his weary head 


233 


The Song of Miriam. 

droop forward on his chest, and, closing his eyes, tried 
to forget the pangs of hunger in sleep. But though he 
partially dozed, he never quite lost consciousness, and 
through the dream-haze of semi-somnolence he was aware 
of the warm breadth of afternoon sunshine that bright- 
ened his poor room, of the rumbling noise of the passing 
vehicles outside, even of the humming song of a big 
bluebottle fly that circled about and bounced against the 
ceiling with buzzing pertinacity. So that the stealthy 
lifting of the doorlatch startled him broad awake in a 
moment, and he half rose out of his chair to confront the 
intruder, a young man of shabby and slouching appear- 
ance, who paused on the threshold before entering. 

“Well, Uncle Reuben! Pretending to starve, as usual ?” 

“Pretending to starve !” The old man pushed his chair 
aside and stood erect, his indignation flushing his thin 
features with a glow of new life. 

“Worthy nephew, I do not lie,” he said, sternly; “I 
am only a Jew. I leave lies to Christians.” 

The newcomer strode into the room, his thin lips 
twitching with an evil smile. 

“You insult my religion,” he began. 

“Your religion?” queried Reuben; “you mean your 
father’s religion. You, Josef Perez, never had a religion, 
I think, except when as a child at the knee of your 
mother — the sister who used to be all in all to me — you 
lisped your first prayers fo the God of Abraham, Isaac 
and Jacob, the one Jehovah who hath never deserted His 
people — until now !” 


234 


The Song of Miriam. 


The last two words escaped his lips involuntarily and 
were accompanied by a heavy sigh. 

Young Perez looked at him morosely. 

“All this is mere cant and humbug/’ he said, impa- 
tiently. “I don’t care two sous about one religion more 
than another; you know that well enough. With a Jew- 
ish mother and a Christian father, I am a half-breed be- 
tween a lie and a truth, I suppose, and it doesn’t matter 
to me which is the truth and which the lie. Where is 
Miriam?” 

“She has gone out.” 

“That’s a good hearing, at any rate. I hate to see her 
crawling about like a snake, and staring at me with her 
big eyes. You know what I’ve come for, well enough. I 
want money.” 

Reuben David threw up his hands with an eloquent 
gesture. 

“Money!” he cried; “where can I get it? Should I 
lack food if I knew?” 

“Oh, that’s all sham!” retorted Perez. “If you’ve no 
money yourself, you know very well how to find it. You 
can give me a letter to one of your hang-dog friends of 
usurers, and I daresay enough cash can be screwed out 
to keep me going. I only want a thousand francs ; it’s a 
mere trifle.” 

The old man stared at him for a moment, as though 
misdoubting the evidence of his own eyes and ears. 

“A thousand francs !” he exclaimed at last. “Are you 
mad, nephew, or am I ? What do you expect of me ? I 


235 


The Song of Miriam. 

have not a sou to buy bread, and you demand a thousand 
francs! You tell me to ask my friends — I have no 
friends! Would I let the child Miriam suffer the pains 
of hunger if I had friends? Would I suffer myself? I 
can do nothing; nothing for my own needs or yours. I 
am almost destitute of clothing ; I have to beg charity in 
the streets to get sufficient money to pay the rent for this 
wretched room; and yet, you, knowing all this, come to 
me for a thousand francs ! You must be dreaming!” 

Perez scowled. 

“Dreaming or waking, I know you are a Jew,” he said. 
“And Jews always have money. My father told me so. 
And he said of you that you could coin it if you chose. 
There was no love lost between you and him, I remember, 
and, between you both, I believe you worried my mother 
into her grave. You were always miser, as well as Jew ; 
and I daresay you’ve got a tidy hoard hidden away in 
this very room, under the boards or behind the grate, for 
all I know. But I’ll get all I can out of you this time, 
depend upon it ! I have come prepared for that, so you 
may as well make the best of the business and give me 
what I want, without any foolery about it.” 

He looked around him suspiciously as he spoke, and 
lowered his voice to a threatening whisper. Reuben made 
no answer. 

“Do you hear me?” continued Perez, advancing close 
up to him with a sudden stride. “I’m sick of all your 
stories about starvation and poverty; you are the best 


236 The Song of Miriam. 

liar I ever met. Out with your hidden cash, or it will be 
the worse for you ! I’ve no time to stand here arguing the 
matter; find me the money, I tell you, or I’ll find it for 
myself.” 

The old man met his fierce gaze calmly and fixedly. 

“You are at liberty to do so, nephew Perez,” he said, 
tranquilly; “if you can discover gold in this poor room, 
you are welcome to it. God is my witness that I have 
spoken truth to you when I tell you I have not a penny 
in the world.” 

As he uttered the words, with uplifted eyes and an 
eloquent gesture of sorrow, his nephew’s face grew livid, 
the veins in his forehead standing out like cords in the 
rush of evil blood that heated his brain. 

“Lying devil !” he muttered, with an oath. Then, 
springing forward, he lifted his hand — it grasped some- 
thing sharp and glittering — there followed a brief strug- 
gle — a fiercely-dealt, heavy blow — and Reuben David, 
with a faint, choking groan, fell dead on the floor, the 
blood welling from a ghastly wound in his throat, where 
his nephew had mortally stabbed him. The afternoon 
sunlight poured fully on the prone figure, the white hair, 
and the red blood that stained the floor, and the murderer, 
still grasping the Spanish poniard that had wrought the 
wicked deed, stared at his work for a moment in sick and 
giddy horror. His limbs seemed paralyzed; he had no 
power to stir, and while he stood thus rooted to the spot, 
he heard in the distance the notes of a full, pure voice 
floating upward, and sounding ever nearer and nearer : 


The Song of Miriam. 237 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and 
His mercy endureth forever.’ 

“ ‘Let all who fear the Lord confess that His mercy 
endureth forever.’ ” 

Seized with a panic, Perez roused himself from his 
apathy. The dagger dropped unheeded from his hand. 

“No time,” he muttered, looking wildly about him. 
“No time to hunt for the money. Curse that Miriam! I 
could twist her throat easily — but — I dare not — not so 
soon after ” 

He stopped, shuddering ; then, creeping to the door, he 
lifted the latch noiselessly, and passed out into the dark- 
ness of the landing beyond — a close, narrow passage 
which led to an unused loft; and here, among the shad- 
ows, he shrank out of sight, straining his ears to listen 
to Miriam’s light step as it came bounding up from the 
ground floor in an almost rythmic measure with the sound 
of her singing. She passed him close ; her skirt brushed 
his foot; he could just see her face, which was smiling 
and radiant. Crouching back further into the semi-ob- 
scurity, he waited, holding his breath. He heard her 
call out in a mirthful voice, “Grandfather !” 

Then a wild shriek of pitiful anguish pierced the air; 
a shriek that turned the blood to ice in the wretched as- 
sassin’s veins and set his nerves quivering. Only that one 
shriek sounded, then all was still. And in that awful 
silence, the murderer, creeping cautiously along like a 


238 The Song of Miriam. 

stealthy animal, glided down the stairs without a sound, 
and, reaching the open house-door unobserved, fled away. 
******** 

Years passed, and the murder of the Jew, Reuben Da- 
vid, was almost forgotten. Justice had been baffled, and 
the law had busied itself in vain. The murderer, though 
tacity understood to be one Josef Perez, a nephew of the 
dead man, had never yet been found. Miriam, on the day 
of the murder, had been discovered lying in a swoon by 
the side of her slain relative, and, on recovering con- 
sciousness and being questioned, declared amid her pas- 
sionate sobs and tears that she knew no possible cause for 
the brutal deed. Her grandfather was always poor, she 
said, and had been forced to beg for his livelihood, being 
too old and feeble to work. She was able, however, to 
identify the Spanish stiletto that was found in the room 
as the property of her cousin, Josef Perez, son of a wine 
merchant in Madrid who had failed recently in business. 
This same wine merchant, brother-in-law of the mur- 
dered Reuben, was sought for by the police and found, 
but, on being interrogated, swore that he knew nothing of 
his son’s whereabouts, adding that he was always a 
ne’er-do-well, and had deserted his home some years since. 
Finally, after long and fruitless search, inquiries were 
dropped, and Miriam alone remembered the horror of 
that sunlit afternoon, when she had found her only pro- 
tector in the world lying dead, with his white hair soaked 
in a pool of blood. She could never blot the awful picture 
from her sight; it was always before her. She remem- 


239 


The Song of Miriam. 

bered, too, how she had sung, “O give thanks unto the 
Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth forever !” 
And she had asked herself many times since : 

“Where was God then ? Why did He permit a dastard 
crime? How did He show His mercy ?” 

And it was a question she was never able to answer to 
her own satisfaction. As a Jewess, she believed in the 
axiom, “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,” and 
certainly she would have added, “A life for a life.” Re- 
venge was just and reasonable, she considered; and for 
years she always carried about with her the dagger that 
had killed old Reuben, hoping against hope that one day 
she might meet the murderer and confront him with the 
proof of his crime. 

And so time went on, and it was the full season in 
Paris. All the world of fashion was pouring itself in the 
Grand Opera, for it was the night of a new production, 
in which one of the most marvelous singers of the day, 
“the divine Miriami,” as she was called, had consented 
to “create” the title role. At the last moment a serious 
contretemps occurred ; one of the male singers, who had 
a secondary part to perform, was suddenly taken ill, and 
the only person who could be found to replace him was 
an obscure individual named Manuelos, an “under-study,” 
who had never appeared before in grand opera. The 
manager hastened to explain the affair to the famous 
Miriami, who, he thought, might justly consider herself 
affronted to be thus forced to sing even a few bars with 
an untried stranger; but the great prima donna was in a 


240 


The Song of Miriam. 

very good humor, and treated the matter lightly. After 
all, the part that had to be filled was a small one, its per- 
former’s chief business consisting in being stabbed by the 
heroine in the last act. 

“Any one can sing the few bars of music necessary,” 
she said, indifferently, to the explanatory and apologetic 
manager. “It is scarcely more than recitative. I shall 
not be at all put out by the stranger, as long as he keeps 
time and tune.” 

And, with a smile of conscious power, she swept out 
of her dressing-room, gorgeous and superb in the rich 
costume and jewels of her part. She was very beautiful, 
was “the divine Miriami ;” her great black eyes, her mag- 
nificent figure, her ravishing grace, had won her the ad- 
miration of kings and emperors ; and her glorious voice, 
united to intense dramatic power, gave her undisputed 
pre-eminence in her profession. On this night in partic- 
ular, from the very commencement of the new opera, she 
scored triumph after triumph, and it was not till the 
close of the second act that she came face to face with 
the unknown “under-study,” Manuelos. As soon as she 
fully perceived him, a curious change came over her ; she 
seemed to grow taller and more majestic than ever; she 
looked like a goddess, and sang like an angel, and the 
brilliant audience almost wore itself out with enthusiastic 
acclamations and recalls. At last the curtain fell, and she 
walked slowly up to the man who had been summoned 
at an hour’s notice to take the place of the singer who 
was ill. 


241 


The Song of Airiam. 

“You rendered your few bars very well,” she said, 
with a gracious smile. “What is your name? I for- 
get ” 

The “under-study,” a middle-aged man, of handsome 
yet dissolute appearance, bowed low, flattered by the fa- 
mous prima donna's notice, and replied : 

“Josef Manuelos, madam!” 

“Ah! that is your stage name, of course! Your 
father’s name was Manuelos, and your own is Josef. It 
is a pretty combination ! Mine is also pretty. I am 
known as ‘Miriami,’ but my real name” — and she smiled 
again brilliantly — “is Miriam David, just as yours is 
Josef Perez!” 

He started, and an awful pallor blanched his features. 
The orchestra was playing a delicious “intermezzo,” and 
it seemed to him like the shrieking of devils. 

“Miriam David !” he gasped. “Miriam ” 

And he stared, panic-stricken, at the magnificent 
woman before him, with her regal figure, her blazing 
eyes, her scarlet lips, parted just now in that strange, 
cold smile. 

“Yes, I am Miriam,” she said. “You would scarcely 
think it, would you? But children alter so much, you 
know ! Are you not glad to see me ? I am particularly 
pleased to find you ; I have been looking for you a long 
while! I knew you could sing a little; but I never 
thought you would make it a profession. How strange it 
is we should meet like this !” 

She spoke in the lightest and most indifferent tone 


242 


The Sc ig of Miriam. 

possible, but conscious guilt made him quick to hear the 
suppressed fury in her voice, and quick to see the gather- 
ing passion in her eyes. He cowered and shrank before 
her ; a cold perspiration bedewed his forehead and hands. 

“This is your property, I believe?” she said, suddenly, 
drawing a glittering object from her belt and showing it 
to him. He uttered a faint exclamation — it was the 
Spanish dagger with which he had murdered old Reuben. 
He looked wildly around him — the stage was full of 
supernumeraries, carpenters and dressers, who were all 
busy in their respective places, preparing for the last act 
of the opera — he tried to speak, but vainly — he sought 
everywhere with his eyes for some means of exit and 
escape, and Miriam saw it. Replacing the dagger in her 
girdle, she approached him closely and whispered 

“Beware what you do ! If you make the least attempt 
to leave the house I will have you arrested at once. I 
shall watch your every motion — your every look ! Play 
your part throughout the opera as I shall play mine! We 
can settle our private affair afterward.” 

He lifted his eyes to her in terrified appeal, but saw 
no pity in those night-black orbs, no softening touch of 
pardon in the expression of the beautiful face, a face 
such as Judith’s must have been when she went forth, 
first to captive and then to slay the mighty Holofernes. 
At that moment the manager approached ; he was in an 
excellent humor, and entirely delighted with the success 
of the new opera. He began to compliment the prima 


The Song of Miriam. 243 

donna on her triumph, and added, with a glance at the 
“understudy” 

“Signor Manuelos satisfied you in his part, madam?” 

“Perfectly!” replied the great “Miriami” composedly. 
“As I have just told him, if he continues to perform his 
role as well as he has begun, we shall not quarrel !” 

“Ah, well! whatever his faults are, you will soon get 
rid of him, as you will kill him in the last act,” laughed 
the manager. “So, for any mistakes he makes, he will 
be punished! The curtain goes up in two minutes, 
madam.” 

And, bowing politely, he hurried on. 

Miriam, or “Miriami,” stood still, looking medita- 
tively at Perez, who, despite himself, trembled in every 
limb. 

“You had better take a glass of sherry or cognac, 
Signor Manuelos,” she suggested, tranquilly, emphasiz- 
ing his stage name somewhat sarcastically, “or I fear 
you will be too nervous to sing your death-song. You 
must present a bold front when I kill you. Stage fright 
is a terrible malady.” 

And, moving slowly to one of the side-wings she took 
up a position where she could watch him wherever he 
went. The wretched man tried to conquer the palsy of 
fear that possessed him like the ague ; a “super” brought 
him, at his own request, some wine, which he swallowed 
at a gulp, while he sought to assume the jaunty manners 
of one perfectly at ease. But he felt the basilisk eyes of 
Miriam upon him, burning as it were into his very 


244 


The Song of Miriam. 

heart’s core; the flash of her jewels, the rustle of her 
robes, the faint perfume of the priceless lace upon her 
breast, all these trifling things seemed to pervade the air 
he breathed with a ghastly chill of terror. He could not 
tell what he feared, and the fear was all the greater be- 
cause so vague and unspeakable. The curtain at last 
went up, and the opera proceeded; the grand “finale,” 
in which there was a magnificent piece of vocalization for 
the prima donna , began. Never had the famous 
“Miriami” sung more superbly ; her voice rang out with 
luscious fullness, like a peal of golden bells, and in the 
concluding “cadenza” she executed such a marvelous 
roulade of upward trills that the audience was fairly 
taken by surprise, and listened in almost breathless si- 
lence. The moment had come, when the heroine of the 
piece was to turn fiercely on a certain false servant who 
had betrayed a secret, and slay him with her own hand. 
This false servant was personated by Perez. Uneasy and 
nervous he advanced toward the footlights, and sang 
in a faint husky voice the brief recitative of his part, a 
recitative implying acknowledgment of guilt and includ- 
ing an appeal for pardon ; but he could scarcely enun- 
ciate either words or music, so appalled was he at the 
terrible look of Miriam’s eyes, as with a slow, stealthy, 
panther-like movement, she glided toward him across 
the stage. For he saw his own Spanish dagger glitter- 
ing in her hand ; and, what was far worse, he saw ven- 
geance — stern, relentless vengeance — written on every 
line of her features. Fear rendered him speechless — 


245 


The Song of Miriam. 

rage made Miriam pitiless. With one fierce bound she 
was upon him, and in a second had plunged the dagger 
deep in his heart! The thrust was so firm and well- 
aimed that he fell without a groan, the blood quickly 
welling up and soaking through the lace and tinsel of his 
stage costume — the audience meanwhile, taking the 
whole scene as a splendid piece of realistic acting, rose 
en masse, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and 
shouting forth thunders of applause. But Miriam stood 
stiff and inert by the side of the fallen man, her lips 
rigidly set, her eyes looking blankly away into nothing- 
ness; and the manager, seeing something was wrong, 
hurried anxiously up to her, while the curtain was 
quickly dropped. 

“What is the matter? What has happened ?” he ex- 
claimed. “Get up, Manuelos !” Then, seeing the blood 
trickling on the floor — “Good God !” And he turned to 
the silent prima donna: “You have killed him! ,, 

She made no answer. She seemed absorbed in solemn 
meditation, looking down at her slain victim. 

“What a frightful thing! What a horrible accident!” 
gasped the disconcerted manager. “What is to be 
done?” 

Then Miriam roused herself and spoke. 

“It was not an accident,” she said, calmly. “It was 
purposely done. I meant to kill him. He murdered the 
one I loved best in the world; and for the dear and 
honored life I have taken his. He deserved his fate. It 
is a just vengeance!” 


246 The Song of Miriam. 

And with a sudden wild gesture, she lifted up her 
voice and sang in full, pure notes of majestic melody, 
words in a language which the astonished and fear- 
stricken people about her knew nothing of, but which 
carried in their very sound a sense of awe. 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious, 
and His mercy endureth forever/ 

“ ‘He giveth us the victory over our enemies : for His 
mercy endureth forever !’ ” 

Then all at once her voice broke in an hysterical cry 
— her unnatural composure gave way, and she seemed to 
realize more fully the horror of the deed she had done. 
Turning shudderingly away from the bleeding corpse of 
Perez, she staggered a few steps, reeled, and fell sense- 
less. 

******** 

All Paris soon knew the story, and Miriam David, 
making no attempt to escape from justice, was tried and 
found guilty of the wilful murder of Josef Perez, her own 
relative, whom she had recognized under his stage-name 
of Manuelos. Plenty of proofs were, however, forthcom- 
ing, as to his identity with the criminal for whom the 
French police had long been searching — namely, the 
murderer of the old Jew, Reuben David, grandfather of 
this very Miriam, who, as “Miriami,” had enchanted the 
whole cultured world. And, after examination and con- 
sideration of all the circumstances, the French jury 
found for Miriam “extenuating circumstances and, 
while solemnly admonishing her of the enormity of her 


The Song of Miriam. 


247 


offense in thus taking the law into her own hand, and 
severely reprimanding her for the same, wound up the 
case by a panegyric on her “superb talent,” and let her 
go scot-free. And her beautiful face, her beautiful voice, 
were from henceforth lost to Europe. The “divine 
Miriami” was seen no more; it was rumored that she 
was dead, and in the hurrying world of fashion and 
pleasure she was soon forgotten. But there is a certain 
retreat in Palestine where approved Jewish teachers and 
professors educate the children of the neighboring Jew- 
ish poor; and among these, there is a mistress of music 
and singing, a grave, dark, beautiful woman, whose 
grand voice is the wonder of the place, and whose stead- 
fast gentle ways have a great and lasting influence on the 
minds of her pupils. She is known as Madam David, 
and only one or two of her fellow-workers remember 
that she was once an artistic “queen of song” and “star” 
of opera. She is very patient with idle and refractory 
scholars, but also very firm and unyielding in her de- 
mands for excellence in music as in all things, and from 
the other teachers with whom she associates she has won 
both respect and admiration, not altogether unmingled 
with fear. Her sombre black eyes, her dark, meditative 
brows, have a certain imperious grandeur that impresses 
an observer with a sense of awe; and the few persons 
who know her history wonder at times whether she ever 
feels remorse for the murder of Perez. No one can tell ; 
her creed is not Christian. Her sympathies are in tune 
with the Psalmist who thus appeals against his enemies : 


248 The Song of Miriam. 

“Let them fall from one wickedness to another, and 
let them come into Thy righteousness. 

“Let them be wiped out of the book of the living, and 
not be written among the righteous !” 

And on great days of Jewish festival, when the whole 
school is assembled at solemn prayer, teachers with them, 
every heart is moved and every soul stirred by the pure 
sound of a perfect voice that floats through the stillness, 
singing with the triumph and sweetness of some victor- 
ious prophetess of old : 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious, 
and His mercy endureth forever! 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the God of all gods, for His 
mercy endureth forever. 

“ ‘Who alone doeth great wonders, for His mercy en- 
dureth forever. 

“ ‘Yea, and slew mighty kings, for His mercy endureth 
forever. 

“ ‘Who remembered us when we were in trouble, for 
His mercy endureth forever. 

“ And hath delivered us from our enemies, for His 
mercy endureth forever! 

“ ‘O give thanks unto the God of Heaven, for His 
mercy endureth forever P ” 

And it is much to be doubted whether there is any 
touch of penitence in this exulting song of Miriam. For 
those who follow the Mosaic Law are not bound to love 
or to forgive their enemies, and the God of the Old Testa- 
ment is not the God of the New ! 


THE SOUL OF THE NEWLY-BORN. 


A black, starless night, hard with frost and bitter cold. 
Long after sunset a chill silence had brooded over the 
dreary stretch of Yorkshire moorland that rolled away 
to the coast in an unbroken line as far as eye could see, 
the stillness at times being so intense that it seemed as if 
the very air were frozen. But as the hours moved on 
towards midnight a sudden wind arose, and, rushing out 
of the stormiest quarter of the heavens, gathered strength 
and fury as it flew. Tearing over the sea, it lashed the 
waves into mountainous billows; leaping over forests, it 
bent tall pines like reeds and snapped sturdy oak boughs 
asunder; sweeping across the open plains, it scattered in 
its wake showers of stinging hail and whirling snow. 
Round one old, red-brick manor house that stood on a 
slightly rising ground, fully exposed to every gale from 
the sea, it roared and screamed and whistled with the 
noise of a thousand demons let loose; it shook the iron 
gates on their rusty hinges ; it tore long sprays of ivy from 
the wall ; and in the impassive faces of two' weather- 
beaten stone lions on either side of the doorway it cast 
great snowflakes, which clung where they fell, congealed 
on the projecting eyes and foreheads of these emblematic 
guardians of the habitation, giving them a more quaint 


250 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

and grimly fabulous aspect than they were wont to wear. 
The house was amply provided with windows, but nearly 
all were shuttered close, as though some one were lying 
dead within, and the angry wind shrieked and battered 
at them in vain. Only one on the ground floor showed a 
pale light for a little while, and even this disappeared at 
last. The big square building, looming darkly out of the 
darker night, might have been a prison or a madhouse for 
aught it looked to the contrary, yet it was known as the 
frequent abode of one of the wealthiest men in the county, 
who had purchased it for the singular reason that there 
was not another human habitation within six miles of it. 
The people of the nearest town called it “Elverton’s 
Folly,” for it was generally understood among them that 
Richard Elverton, the owner, had other objects in view 
beside that of mere solitude when he chose to reside there 
for eight months out of every twelve. One was that there 
could not well be found a more retired and convenient 
place to get dead drunk in without too many tell-tale wit- 
nesses ; another, that it was a first-class dungeon in which 
to shut up a handsome wife, who, during a certain “sea- 
son” in London had revenged herself for two long years 
of wedded wretchedness by numerous and somewhat 
reckless flirtations with various well-known men. 

Three miles off the sea broke in through straggling 
rocks upon a rough, shingly beach, where not even the 
smallest boat could find safe mooring; and when a storm 
was raging, as now, its angry voice could be heard thun- 
dering above the loudest wind. To-night the thud and 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 251 

rumble of the waves were appallingly distinct, and, min- 
gling with the furious howling of the blast, made a ter- 
rific uproar, which crept gradually and with fierce per- 
sistence into the ears of a helpless human creature whose 
senses were only at that moment awaking to the con- 
sciousness of earthly things. Up in one of the largest 
and dreariest rooms of the “Folly” a child had been born 
that afternoon ; and it now lay, not in its mother’s arms, 
but in a small wooden crib, near a fire, which, allowed to 
smolder by the carelessness of the dozing nurse, emitted 
more smoke than flame. The infant lay inert, but open- 
eyed, quiet, and apparently thoughtful. Not itself, but 
the soul within its tiny frame was awake and wondering. 
Curiously wistful and vaguely aware of some great loss 
and mysterious doom, that soul looked out of the new- 
born child’s innocent blue eyes and silently asked itself 
the meaning of the strange things it heard and saw. 
Darkness and storm! — a fulminating wrath somewhere 
in the unseen heavens ! — and, most marvelous transforma- 
tion lof all, as well as most sorrowful, a complete evan- 
ishment of those broad spaces of illimitable light and 
ever-unfolding beauty in which it had so lately dwelt, 
safe and serene. 

“How has this chanced to me ?” mused the imprisoned 
soul, in pain ; “where and how did I lose my consciousness 
of joy?” 

No answer was vouchsafed ; no heavenly whisper solved 
the mystery; the wind shrieked and the rain fell; and, 
mournfully impressed by an increasing sense of dreari- 


252 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

ness and desolation, the strayed immortal peered through 
its frail mortal casement with a keen anxiety that almost 
touched despair. At a little distance off, on a bed heaped 
with soft wrappings and pillows, lay a woman sleeping. 
Her face was beautiful, worn as it was by illness and 
exhaustion; her hand, thin and delicate, rested outside 
the coverlet, and the rings upon her fingers sparkled like 
so many small stars. Her hair, loosely knotted up, shone 
above her brows like finely spun gold, and as she slept 
she looked gentle and pitiful ; a creature made to be loved 
and caressed and sheltered in strong arms, safe from the 
sorrow and shame of life in a censorious world. Many 
women look so, and many men are thereby deceived. And 
the soul of the child, gazing yearningly at her, felt a 
sudden thrill of knowledge mixed with uncertain hope and 
fear. 

“There,” it said within itself, “is one who will love 
me. She will be called my mother!” 

And it trembled through all its delicate and heavenly 
fibres; and the tiny human frame in which it was impris- 
oned instinctively stretched out appealing arms and 
wailed softly for the comfort of embraces, the tenderness 
of kisses, the blessedness of welcome. But the sleeping 
mother did not stir; and another woman, sitting in the 
further corner of the room, rose slowly and came forward 
at the sound of the infant’s crying. Her coarse, ungainly 
figure loomed like a black mass out of the shadows ; with 
ungentle hands she snatched the child up and shook it 
violently, muttering under her breath, “Be quiet, you 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 253 

wretched little puling brat, do! Can’t you let a body 
sleep!” And, rolling it up afresh in its flannel wrap- 
pings, she angrily replaced it in its crib, after having ren- 
dered it nearly breathless. While she was thus occupied 
a voice called from the bed: 

“Nurse !” 

“Ma’am?” 

“What is the matter?” 

“Nothing ma’am. ’ 

“Did the child cry?” 

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a bit fretful; will you have it with 
you for a little?” 

The mother gave a shuddering movement of repulsion, 
and hid her face in her pillow. 

“No, no!” she moaned; “I cannot!” 

The nurse shrugged her shoulders in apparent con- 
tempt. Poking the dull fire into a brief blaze, she poured 
something out from a bottle that stood on the mantelpiece 
and drank it off; then, setting her arms akimbo, she 
looked round at her patient. 

“Don’t take on so, Missis Elverton,” she said, fawn- 
ingly. “These things can’t be helped sometimes. It 
ain’t the baby’s fault, you know! Maybe it would com- 
fort you to have it a while ; poor little thing, I daresay it 
feels lonesome?” 

Mrs. Elverton raised her head; her cheeks were 
flushed, and a cruel line hardened her mouth. 

“I wish it were dead !” she exclaimed, passionately. 

The nurse smiled a wicked smile, but said nothing. 


254 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 


She poked the fire again, and again bent over the newly- 
born child. To all appearances it slept. Satisfied, the 
nurse resumed her position in an armchair placed well 
out of all possibility of draughts, and, drawing a thick 
shawl about her shoulders, settled herself for a doze, un- 
conscious, or pretending to be unconscious, of the fact 
that the patient had buried her face again in her pillows 
and was sobbing bitterly. 

The storm howled on incessantly outside, and the 
clamor of the sea on the beach grew louder as the night 
wore on. And presently the eyes of the child opened 
again in the semi-gloom, and once more through their 
translucent windows the fluttering and perplexed soul 
peered forth into the unknown realm into which it had 
so strangely and involuntarily wandered. It turned its 
ethereal regard toward the figure on the bed — it listened 
to the dread and smothered sound of weeping — it pal- 
pitated with pity, wonder and fear. But the words “I 
wish it were dead !” had pierced to the very centres of its 
being, and though they were to it, in a manner, inex- 
plicable, because death was a thing unknown, it felt a 
sense of banishment and loss that was colder than the 
night and fiercer than the storm. Nay, the very wrath of 
the warring elements was more familiar and friendly to 
its immortal nature than the unalluring proximity of its 
two human companions. With a quivering desire for 
escape thrilling through its fine essence the soul trem- 
bled violently within the little frame in which it was pent 
up — such a tiny, feeble, yet beautiful and perfect organ- 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 255 

ism, moved by light breathings and delicate nerve-throb- 
bings, though as yet scarcely aware of life. Half com- 
passionate, half pained, and wholly perplexed, the im- 
prisoned immortal, finding its struggles of no avail, pre- 
sently became touched by a vague anxiety for the safety 
of its weak habitation, and ceased for the moment to 
rebel or complain. Withdrawing its gaze from outer 
things, it rested passive. And, rendered suddenly tran- 
quil, the new-born infant slept. 

With the morning the wind ceased, and a dull gray 
day set in, accompanied by heavy rain. The nurse 
awoke, and, yawning wearily, re-lit the fire which had 
gone out — a servant came with breakfast for both nurse 
and patient. This servant was a girl of about seventeen 
or thereabouts, with a broad good-humored face and 
lively manners. 

“Well, how’s the baby?” she asked. 

“As right as babies usually are at such a time of life,” 
responded the nurse, crossly. “The less they’re wanted, 
the more they thrive.” 

“And how’s she?” went on the servant, nodding to- 
ward the bed. 

“Doing nicely. Is Mr. Elverton downstairs yet?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you tell him his bahy’s a girl, and that I’ll bring 
it to him as soon as I’ve had my breakfast.” 

“Ah ! you’ll find him very queer” — and the maid shook 
her head mysteriously. “He went on something awful 
last night!” 


256 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

“Last night isn’t this morning,” said the nurse sen- 
tentiously. “Muddlehead or no muddlehead, he’s got 
to see his baby whether he likes it or not. Otherwise 
he’d be quite capable of saying it’s some one else’s.” 

And she smiled knowingly. The smile was reflected 
curiously on the young servant’s face as she withdrew. 

“Now, ma’am — now, Missis Elverton,” proceeded the 
nurse, approaching the bedside, “here’s your tea. 
Lord’s sake! if you haven’t been crying! You ought to 
know better than that. You’ll get the fever if you don’t 
learn to control yourself.” 

“What does that matter!” and Mrs. Elverton moved 
restlessly. “I wish with all my heart I could die, and 
there would be an end of it. Oh, nurse ! Do you think 
he will ever know ? Do you think he will guess ?” 

The nurse, whose name was Collins, busied herself in 
cutting a slice of toast into strips before replying. Then 
she looked up with a dull sarcasm expressed in her hard 
eyes. 

“Men are blind as bats when they’re sober,” she said. 
“And when they’re drunk they’re blinder still. I don’t 
suppose you’ve any cause for alarm, if you keep quiet. 
But you’re not a very clever woman, if you’ll excuse the 
liberty I take in saying so — I’ve known a’many cleverer. 
And if the child should grew at all like its father, of 
course unpleasant things might be said ” 

Mrs. Elverton pushed away her untasted tea, with a 
gesture of irritation. 

“He can prove nothing,” she murmured. “There are 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 257 

no letters — nobody can say anything except” — here her 
wild eyes turned appealingly on her attendant — “except 
—you !” 

Nurse Collins smiled coldly. 

“I shall say nothing, you may be sure, ma’am,” she 
replied. “It’s none of my business. I know too many 
ladies’ secrets to mind another being added to the list. 
Besides, I get all my income out of knowing how to hold 
my tongue. Don’t you think you’d better look at the 
child?” 

“No!” said Mrs. Elverton vehemently — “I tell you I 
hate it ! I feel that it will be my curse !” 

The nurse looked slightly contemptuous at this out- 
burst, and, without replying, turned to the discussion of 
her own breakfast. After she had made a thoroughly 
substantial meal, and not before, she moved leisurely 
over to the baby’s crib and sat down beside it, studying 
intently the features of the helpless little creature within. 
Its eyes were fully open, and regarded her with such a 
weird pathos, that, as she said to herself, it “worried 
her.” In fact, after a little time she could not refrain 
from uttering her thoughts aloud. 

“Upon my word, Missis Elverton,” she said, with an 
involuntary low laugh as she spoke; “there’s one thing 
quite positive about this child — it’s got its father’s eyes !” 

Mrs. Elverton with an effort raised herself in bed, 
uttering a frightened exclamation. 

“It’s father’s eyes!” she echoed, and her thin hands 
clutched the coverlet nervously. 


258 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

“The very images of them!” went on Nurse Collins, 
evidently gloating over her discovery. “They’re rather 
remarkable eyes you know, ma’am; you don’t often see 
their like in a man’s head. Very blue, and with black 
centres — for all the world like cornflowers — and here 
this blessed baby has them as plain as plain can be !” 

With a sort of shuddering half-sob, Mrs. Elverton 
sank back and covered her face, as though she strove to 
hide herself from the very light of day. The nurse no- 
ticed her action with more disdain than compassion. 

“What cowards these fine ladies are, to be sure!” she 
considered. “With a drunken brute for a husband, I 
would tell any number of lies without turning a hair, 
or fretting my conscience about it either. Come here, 
you poor little mite. I must do my duty by you as far 
as I can.” 

And lifting the infant in her arms, she wrapped a 
thick white shawl about it many times, and prepared to 
leave the room. 

“Where are you going, nurse?” Mrs. Elverton asked, 
in faint alarmed accents. 

“Down stairs, ma’am. It’s best to take the bull by the 
horns at once. I’m sure Mr. Elverton will want to see 
his baby!” — and she laughed somewhat derisively. “You 
trust me, ma’am, I’ll manage. Try and drink your tea 
while I’m gone.” 

She closed the door of the room noiselessly behind 
her, and began to descend a broad, thickly-carpeted stair. 
The rain beat against the hall windows with a pattering, 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 259 

dreary noise, and the soul of the child, passively looking 
out on all that surrounded it, became again conscious of 
pain and discomfiture. Again it asked itself the reason 
of its strange imprisonment, its bound and tortured state. 
Why, in this hollow of space and time into which it had 
unwittingly flown like a stray moth at nightfall, was 
there so little light and liberty, so much close darkness 
and bitter thrall? No solution was as yet vouchsafed of 
the intricate and agonizing mystery ! 

And now the nurse, carefully hushing her frail charge, 
crossed the threshold of a large and well-furnished apart- 
ment, where the biaze from a bright fire cast a cheerful 
glow over a table that glittered with silver and china 
and all the appurtenances of wealth amounting to ex- 
travagance. Here, in a deep armchair, with his slippered 
feet on the fender, and his bloated figure wrapped in a 
costly fur-lined dressing-gown, sat a repulsive-looking 
man of about forty-five or fifty, reading the morning’s 
newspaper. 

“Who’s that?” he shouted impatiently, springing to 
his feet as the nurse entered. She curtsied respectfully. 

“It’s Nurse Collins, if you please, sir,” she said in 
meek accents, curtseying again with a fawning leer on 
her dull, commonplace features. “You’ll be glad to hear, 
sir, that your dear lady’s doing very well indeed; and 
here is the sweet baby, sir — a fine little girl ” 

He stopped her with a fierce gesture and still fiercer 
oath. His coarse face, swollen with excess of drink, 
grew purple with fury, his eyes, protruding from his 


260 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

head, shone luridly with the glare of madness and 
wickedness. Trembling from head to foot, he advanced 
a step or two, dashing the newspaper behind him. 

“Damn you!” he said — “And damn the woman up- 
stairs, too! How dare you bring that brat to me? Take 
it out of my sight! Smother it — drown it! — go to hell 
with it! What are you standing there for?” and he al- 
most foamed at the mouth in the extremity of his delir- 
ious rage. “Go, if you want to keep a whole skin ! And 
take the cursed bastard with you !” 

The face of the nurse turned a sickly white; but she 
still made an effort to hold her ground. 

“Lord, Mr. Elverton, sir! Won’t you even look at 
the poor little dear ? And, begging your pardon, sir, it’s 
the very image of yourself, sir, say what you like — and 
I’m sure you don’t know your own mind, sir, this morn- 
ing, if I may make so bold, and the poor baby hasn’t 
done you no harm ” 

He made a wild bound toward her with raised arm 
and clenched fist. 

“Go to the devil!” he yelled. “Must I speak twice?” 
and he panted heavily for breath. “By God, I’ll break 
every bone in your body if you stay here another in- 
stant !” 

Thoroughly startled now, the nurse fell back from the 
murderous-looking figure that threatened her, and made 
a slinking and frightened exit, endeavoring, as she went, 
to soothe and quiet the infant, for it had broken out into 
a desolate and helpless wailing, and its tiny face was wet 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 261 

with tears. A speechless misery was expressed in its 
wide-open eyes; the misery of the captive soul within. 
Memory and woeful consciousness were pouring rapidly 
in upon that ethereal intelligence — it knew, it felt the 
frightful hopelessness of wilful sin born and bred in the 
children of humanity — it realized with sudden horror 
that this world was but an outer phase of some deeper 
and more inextricable form of banishment from its 
Creator — and with all the fervor of its immortal strength 
it silently protested, prayed and strove to rend its nar- 
row prison. But in vain ; for its time was not yet. 

Half-way up the stairs, the nurse met a housemaid 
coming down. 

“Well?” said the girl tentatively. 

“He’s a beast!” returned the nurse emphatically. 
“He’s as drunk this morning as he was last night.” 

“Why, of course!” and the maid looked surprised 
that any one should imagine that her master could ever 
be otherwise than in a drunken condition. “When 
they’re took that way it lasts them a long time. I’ve 
been here six weeks and I’ve never seen him really 
sober. It’s what the doctors call delirium treemens. I’d 
leave him to it if I were her.” And she jerked her head 
in the direction of her mistress’ bedroom. 

“Ah! But if you had no money of your own, what 
would you do?” inquired Nurse Collins scornfully. 
“You wouldn’t care to beg your bread in the streets I 
dare say ! She hasn’t got a penny to bless herself with ; 
how can she leave him?” 


262 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

“She could get a divorce, couldn’t she?” suggested 
the housemaid. 

“Could she?” and the nurse smiled a covert smile. 
“Well, I don’t know about that. Divorce is a nasty bus- 
iness; no end of disagreeable questions are asked which 
are not always convenient to answer.” 

And she went on her way murmuring “Sh — sh !” to 
the still wailing baby. She found Mrs. Elverton fast 
asleep, so she set about ministering to the poor infant’s 
wants as well as she could, being a woman of rough 
manners and rougher touch. But the tiny mortal gave 
her no trouble. It ceased crying directly it was brought 
into its mother’s room, and now lay on the nurse’s lap 
passively, without moving its large blue eyes from the 
weirdly contemplative study of her face. Even when she 
put it back in its crib it still gazed at her in the same 
patient, wondering, pained way, much as a trapped ani- 
mal might look at its captor. 

“I never in all my life saw such a child !” she grum- 
bled to herself in some perplexity — “Staring away for all 
the world as if it knew all about itself and its parents too ! 
It doesn’t sleep half enough either ; it’s an unnatural sort 
of baby, somehow. Perhaps it’s just as well Mr. Elverton 
didn’t see those big eyes ; drunk, as he is from morning 
to night, he might have 

“Nurse!” Mrs. Elverton had awakened suddenly with 
a nervous start, and was trying to lift herself up in bed, 
“Did you take the child to him?” 

“Yes, I did, ma’am.” 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 2 6 ) 

“What did he say?” 

Nurse Collins hesitated a moment. 

“Well, he’s very bad this morning; I don’t think he 
quite knows what he says, so it isn’t any use telling 
you ” 

“Ah !” Mrs. Elverton closed her eyes and heaved a 
deep sigh. “I can guess.” 

“He wouldn’t look at it,” went on the nurse. “But I 
shouldn’t worry about that if I were in your place.” 

“Worry!” echoed Mrs. Elverton, opening her eyes 
that were suddenly ablaze with scorn ; “Worry about 
him ? I never give him a moment’s thought if I can help 
it. He has made my life a perfect misery to me ever 
since we were married. Do you know what he did when 
my first child was born — his own child?” and she em- 
phasized these words with a dreadful intensity of mean- 
ing. “He came into my room deliriously drunk, dragged 
the baby out of bed and flung it on the ground naked. 
There it lay for an hour, while he stamped about, rav- 
ing and swearing. He had locked the door so that no 
one should come in, and I was afraid to ring my bell 
and give the alarm lest he should kill me. When at last 
he went away and the servants came, I was almost mad 
with terror; and the child, happily for itself, died three 
days afterward. And you tell me not to ‘worry’ for such 
a brute as that !” 

Nurse Collins had taken a chair by the bedside and 
was busied with some sewing. 

“Well, ma’am, you’ve a deal to suffer and that’s a 


264 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

fact,” she said. “But you’re not the only one by a long 
way. The drink is a curse to many gentlemen as well 
as to the ‘poorer classes,’ about which the newspapers 
are always a-talking. And if so be it’s true as I’ve heard 
say, that you married Mr. Elverton for his money, there’s 
what you’ve got for it. It often happens to ladies who 
are on the look-out for wealth and a good position, that 
they get men like that, and men, too, who don’t and 
won’t give them any money to spend either. I often 
think myself that the old-fashioned way of marrying for 
love was best. Folks might have hard times, and no 
doubt they had, and they might have to work hard too, 
which is a healthy thing in itself — but I dare say they led 
happier lives and kept themselves a deal honester and 
cleaner.” 

Mrs. Elverton’s face flushed; and turning her head 
away she said no more. 

All day the rain was incessant. Toward three o’clock 
in the afternoon there was a crunching of quick wheels 
on the roughly-kept carriage drive of the “Folly,” and 
Nurse Collins, looking out of the window, saw Mr. El- 
verton getting into his dog-cart, evidently bent on a 
journey. His groom put in a small portmanteau and 
several wraps, and then assisted his master (who was de- 
cidedly unsteady on his legs) to mount the seat. The 
light vehicle was drawn by a spirited mare who at the 
first touch of the whip started down the drive at a brisk 
canter which was almost a gallop; the groom swung 
himself up behind, the iron gates opened, and in two or 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 265 

three minutes the whole equipage had disappeared 
among the mists of drifting rain. Finding her patient 
dozing, the nurse slipped out of the room, and leaning 
over the upper banisters called softly to a servant whom 
she heard moving to and fro below. 

“Where has the master gone?” 

“Into the town to dine and sleep,” replied the girl, 
looking up at her. “Isn’t it a mercy ! We shall have a 
quiet night of it for once. Peters, the groom, has gone 
with him.” 

Nurse Collins returned to her post, and as soon as the 
invalid awoke, told her of her husband’s sudden depar- 
ture. A great relief and joy brightened Mrs. Elverton’s 
face, and gave it back all its own original beauty — rous- 
ing herself, she sat up in bed, and readily partook of 
some nourishing broth which her attendant prepared for 
her; and then, with her own hands, she undid and re- 
twisted her beautiful hair, asking for a mirror, that she 
might see for herself how many flaws her sufferings had 
made in the delicate perfection of her charms. 

“Oh, what ugly lines!” she said playfully, marking 
with her small forefinger the hollows of pain beneath her 
eyes. “But they will go away soon, won’t they, nurse? 
They will not stay there as if I were old. I am only six- 
and-twenty. My eyes are wonderfully bright, aren’t 
they? You don’t think it is fever, do you? Oh, no! 
They were always bright — and I really think — yes, I 
really do think the lashes have grown longer since I was 
ill. I like long lashes ; I know some women who would 


266 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

give anything in the world to have them as long as 
mine.” 

She laughed with conscious vanity, then she ran one 
hand through her hair and raised it slightly on one side 
so that the gold color rippled and shone like a stray 
gleam of sunlight where it waved back from the brow. 
Surveying herself with meditative admiration for some 
minutes, she sighed as she laid down the mirror. 

“Now — you may bring me the child,” she said, sud- 
denly. 

The nurse obeyed, and placed the little creature in her 
arms. As she met the upward look of its solemn, sad 
blue eyes, she trembled through and through; the piti- 
ful, beseeching, wistful gaze had something in it that 
appalled and shamed her. She had nothing of the 
spiritual in her nature — she could not know or dream 
that it was an angelic being that so reproachfully re- 
garded her; a bright thing strayed from heaven, and 
yearning to return thither. For now the soul was fully 
conscious of its exile and its grief, it realized that every 
day of its imprisonment in its earthly habitation would 
but add to its abasement and despair. Undesired, un- 
loved, and bitterly lonely its existence would be — sin 
and fraud and shame accompanying it in all the different 
phases of its life experience. And no tenderness was now 
expressed in the infant’s clear orbs of vision, as they 
reflected the unloving mother’s face — only distrust and 
pain. 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 267 

Mrs. Elverton surveyed it, noting every small feature 
of the tiny visage with cold unsympathetic intentness. 

“What a pity it was ever born !” she said. “Born dead 
it would not have mattered — but a living child, and a 
girl, too — what chance will it ever have in such a world 
as this! It is a most unfortunate affair — a more un- 
wished-for baby never breathed!” 

Knitting her brows in a vexed frown, she signed to 
the nurse to take it away ; and, when it was replaced in its 
crib, lav back on her pillows, not in sleep but in 
thought. 

Slowly the afternoon wore on, and once more the 
night descended. The storm had now entirely ceased, 
though a light wind still blew in from the sea-coast, 
moaning softly at the cracks of the windows and doors, 
as though in penitence for its past fury. Stars came 
dimly out in the faintly clouded heavens, and the waves 
could be heard on the distant beach, coming in with a 
long, solemn organ-roll of sound, very different to the 
wild crashing and upheaving they had made among the 
rocks a few hours before. Between eight and nine 
o’clock a tall man, wrapped close in a dark-hooded 
ulster, arrived at “Elverton’s Folly,” and, with a few 
words uttered in a low tone, and a couple of sovereigns 
slipped into the hand of the servant who opened the door, 
was instantly admitted. Once inside the hall, he asked to 
see Nurse Collins. Summoned, she came immediately, 
and held up her hands in amazement as she recognized 
her visitor. 


268 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

“Lord, it’s never you, Sir Godfrey!” she exclaimed. 
“What a turn you’ve given me to be sure! And the 
daring of it ! Why couldn’t you wait till I wrote as I’d 
promised! Suppose Mr. Elverton had been here?” 

“I should have throttled him, I dare say,” was the cool 
reply, and the speaker, Sir Godfrey Lawrence, unfas- 
tened his coat and threw it aside, showing himself to be 
a distinctly handsome man of about two or three-and- 
thirty. “I’ve been haunting this confoundedly dull 
neighborhood for a week and more, and to-day by good 
luck I met him driving recklessly toward the town, drunk 
as usual, and whipping that unfortunate mare of his al- 
most to madness. The groom was holding on to the 
trap behind with both hands in sheer desperation, lest he 
should be flung off into the road and left there. Neither 
master nor man saw me. But I guessed they would be 
absent for a few hours at any rate, so I walked on here as 
fast as the mud would let me. I have been nearly out of 
my mind with suspense. How is she?” 

“Weak enough, but doing well,” replied the nurse, 
eyeing him curiously as she spoke. “I make no doubt 
you’ve been anxious.” 

“Anxious ! Good God !” — and he strode up and down 
agitatedly — “I have seen her in my dreams, lying stiff 
in her coffin, poor little soul! I have felt myself to be 
worse than a murderer — if you call that being anxious! 
Is she out of all danger?” 

“One can never quite say that,” returned Nurse Col- 
lins sedately — “Not so soon. You see, the baby was 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 269 

only born yesterday afternoon between five and six 
o'clock.” 

Sir Godfrey turned white, then red, and bit his lips 
hard. 

“Dead, I hope?” he said in a harsh whisper. 

The nurse looked him full in the eyes. 

“No, Sir Godfrey. Living.” 

He made a swift step toward her. 

“Why didn’t you smother it? You could have done 
so, and no one would have been any the wiser !” 

Nurse Collins smiled coldly. 

“Thank you, sir, but I have a conscience, little as you 
seem to think it. I would rather not commit murder, if 
you will excuse me, Sir Godfrey. I could not do it, even 
to oblige you ; it would be against my principles.” 

“Damn your principles !” he muttered, under his 
breath, and again he strode up and down. 

“Can I see her?” he demanded suddenly, stopping 
abruptly. 

“Well, I should think you might,” the nurse replied 
meditatively. “I fancy perhaps it would rouse her a bit. 
She is certainly nervous and fretful. You might perhaps 
set her mind more at ease. But I must prepare her first. 
And you can see the baby too!” she added, with an un- 
kind smile, as she left the room. 

Sir Godfrey frowned, but said nothing, and during the 
few minutes he was kept waiting paced up and down in 
chafing discontent, remorse and misery. He was a no- 
toriously “fast” man, very popular among the “upper 


27 o The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

ten,” and he had more time and money on his hands 
than he knew what to do with. As a natural result of 
idleness and wealth combined, he was always more or 
less in what he called a “hobble,” and the “hobble” 
generally had a woman in the centre of it. But he was 
not wholly bad; and the latent manliness in him made 
him heartily ashamed of himself at the present moment. 
His so-called “flirtation” with pretty Mrs. Elverton, be- 
gun lightly, had deepened into a dangerous passion and 
had gone too far; “much too far,” he told himself with 
a smarting conscience. Yet, after all, how could he help 
it? he queried. He was but a man — and she — she was 
so winsome and lovely and trustful, and so ill-treated by 
her drunken brute of a husband, that surely it was no 
wonder that 

Here his unhappy musings were interrupted by the 
return of Nurse Collins. 

“You can come upstairs, Sir Godfrey. She is quite 
ready to see you.” 

Treading softly on tiptoe, and trembling with a ner- 
vousness quite unusual to him, the baronet, whose 
marked attentions to another man’s wife had provided 
society with scandal for a considerable period, followed 
his guide into the room where lay the woman he loved 
with all that brief madness that only comes once in a 
lifetime, leaving disaster and ruin in its train. She had 
turned round on her pillows to catch the first glimpse of 
him as he entered ; her eyes were brilliant with joy, and 
she stretched out her arms to him as he approached. 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 271 

“Oh, Godfrey! How good — how brave of you to 
come !” 

“ Violet ! my darling !” he murmured tremulously ; and 
drawing her tenderly to his breast, he held her there 
while she wept softly from sheer weakness and delight 
combined. Nurse Collins turned away, and bent over 
the crib where the lonely infant quietly reposed. It was 
strangely passive — it neither moved nor cried, and when 
the nurse came near it, it was not startled from its 
weirdly tranquil condition. Its eyes were fixed with sin- 
gular tenacity on certain shadows thrown by the fire- 
light upon the opposite wall — the shadows of two guilty 
creatures, its mother and her lover, locked in each other’s 
arms. 

After about half an hour’s whispered conversation, 
Sir Godfrey turned from the bedside, still holding one of 
Violet Elverton’s. hands within his own, and said, in an 
anxious voice : 

“She is very weak, nurse. For God’s sake take care 
of her !” 

“I shall do my best, sir,” responded Nurse Collins, 
somewhat frigidly. “Will you look at the child?” 

The baronet started violently, and dropped the hand 
he held. Mrs. Elverton grew deadly pale, and her beau- 
tiful eyes searched his face alarmedly. 

“Oh, Godfrey !” she whispered with a half sob ; “If it 
had only died ! ” 

“Ah! if it had!” he answered under his breath. “As 
it is, it must live on a lie — it must be the unconscious 


272 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

witness of- ” He flushed a shamed red. “Violet, it 

is a bad beginning !” 

She made no reply, but only clung to him. Gently 
disengaging himself he laid her back on her pillows, and, 
rising from his place at the bedside, advanced somewhat 
unsteadily. 

“Where is it?” he asked in hoarse accents. 

The nurse silently pointed to the crib. Approaching 
almost timidly, he bent down lower and lower, gazing 
in vague wonder not unmixed with fear at the small 
creature he beheld — so frail and feeble a morsel of 
humanity, so infinitely touching in its helplessness and 
innocence. Presently, sinking on one knee, he lightly 
brushed the infant’s soft little face with his lips. Its 
earnest eyes, the angel copies of his own, looked up at 
him so sorrowfully, so appealingly, that he was moved to 
a greater remorse and shame than he had thought possi- 
ble to his nature. 

“Poor little child,” he murmured. “Poor little sinless 
child of sin !” 

And with the words a new and keener comprehension 
of its unhappy fate swept like a sudden flare of lightning 
over the suffering soul, pent up in flesh even as a pris- 
oner behind those dungeon bars. “A child of sin !” Yes ; 
and therefore doomed by mystic and eternal laws to bear 
the burden of sin, which meant to an immortal spirit the 
utter deprivation of all its highest privileges for all that 
bitterest phase of troublous striving known as human 
life. Ah, what strange passion was that which leaped 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 273 

into the child’s eyes then? What dread and horror was 
it that held its erring father motionless, gazing into those 
eyes as though he read in them reproach and doom? 

“God forgive me 1” he whispered, laying his trembling 
hand on the tiny head. “God forgive me that I wish 
you were dead, my poor little one! Nothing but sorrow 
awaits you — nothing but a fraud practiced on your inno- 
cence all through your days ; and who knows if the time 
may not come when both 1 and your mother will loathe 
the sight of you as the visible if unconscious witness of 
our sin. Poor child! How much kinder would death 
be to you than life !” 

A few hot tears dropped on the infant’s curled-up 
hand; then, ashamed of his weakness, he again kissed 
the soft cheek, and rose, pale to the lips, and with a 
tremor running through his stalwart frame. 

“It is a pretty little thing,” he said briefly to the nurse, 
at the same time laying a crisp ten-pound Bank of Eng- 
land note on the table ; then, knitting his brows sternly, 
he added in a low tone., “You must keep your own 
counsel !” 

Nurse Collins curtesied as she took the note and 
pocketed it. 

“You may rely on me, Sir Godfrey,” she replied. “But 
of course you know Mr. Elverton has his suspicions.” 

“A drunkard’s suspicions are worthless,” he said. 
“The child is born in wedlock, and he can prove nothing. 
All you have to do is to hold your tongue. And don’t 


274 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

let Mrs. Elverton worry herself — there is no cause for 
fear.” 

And he moved gently again to the bedside, taking his 
love’s pale hands in his own and kissing them tenderly. 

“Where are you going now, Godfrey?” she asked, 
plaintively. 

“I am staying at the inn on the coast,” he replied. 
“You know it, about seven miles from here. It is a fine 
night, and I shall walk. Don’t be in the least anxious, 
Violet ; sleep and get well quickly ; remember, there is no 
danger.” 

He said these last words slowly and with emphasis. 

“Have you looked at it?” she whispered. 

“The child? Yes.” 

“It’s eyes ” 

Sir Godfrey kissed her quivering lips. 

“I know. They are tell-tales ; but do not alarm your- 
self needlessly now. Try not to think. Rest, and have 
confidence that all will go well. Nurse Collins is faith- 
ful.” 

At that moment the nurse approached him. 

“I think you had better be going, sir,” she said, re- 
spectfully. “I expect the doctor about eleven.” 

Sir Godfrey at once accepted the warning, and, with a 
hurried yet tender farewell, left the room quickly, with- 
out again turning his head toward the shadowed corner 
where lay his love-abandoned child. Outside the door 
he shook hands with the nurse. 

“I’m sure you will do all you can for her,” he said 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 275 

with great earnestness. “You know very well her hus- 
band doesn’t care — but I care, and if she had died ” 

“You would have soon forgotten her, sir,” remarked 
Nurse Collins composedly. “And found another lady. 
It is the way with most gentlemen of your standing.” 

He gave her an angry glance, vexed at the coolness 
with which she thus estimated his character; then re- 
membering she held his guilty secret in her hands, he 
forced a careless laugh. 

“You think so?” he said, lightly. “Perfectly natural 
on your part, I daresay. But you do not understand 
what real love is. Good-night.” 

And in another moment or two he had left the house. 

The nurse stood for a little while on the landing from 
whence she had watched him disappear, thinking her 
own thoughts half aloud. 

“Real love!” she muttered. “Ah! poor folks have 
their ideas about that as well as rich. What I call real 
love is very different to what your fine gentlemen of 
fashion calls it. To love a woman well enough to save 
her from any suspicion of slander is real love, if you like ; 
not to go dangling after her everywhere, and making 
people talk about her till she hasn’t got a shred of repu- 
tation left. Real love, indeed !” 

Yet, with all her seeming-honest notions, she found a 
peculiar satisfaction in fingering Sir Godfrey’s crisp 
bank-note in her pocket, and she foresaw plenty of future 
opportunities for getting money out of him when mat- 
ters required to be “hushed up” or otherwise smoothed 


27 6 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

over. Therefore she was in a very contented frame of 
mind with herself and things in general when she re- 
entered her patient’s room. Finding that Mrs. Elverton 
had fallen peacefully asleep and that the infant in its crib 
was apparently sleeping too, she softly stirred the fire 
and sat comfortably down beside it to await the arrival 
of the doctor, and also to concoct a plan by which Sir 
Godfrey Lawrence’s visit to the house during Mr. El- 
verton’s absence should be kept a secret by the other 
servants as well as herself. 

Meanwhile, the soul of the newly-born was struggling 
rebelliously in its narrow prison, resolved to make a des- 
perate fight for liberty ; and up to the throne of Eternal 
Love its complaint piteously ascended. 

“Not in this world, oh, divine Creator — not in this 
world let me suffer! Not here shall be found the fires 
which purify — not here, where Falsehood is given the 
dominion over Truth ! Surely, oh, righteous Father, in 
this dark corner of Thy Universe Thy creatures have 
forgotten Thee — and for this cause cometh all their sin ! 
Condemn me not, oh Thou supreme Mercy, to share 
their dreadful banishment — for behold, I do not forget. 
Thou, and Thou only, art my memory and my joy! If 
for some flaw in my nature 1 must needs pass a time of 
exile and severance from Thee, plunge me if Thou wilt 
into an abyss of fiery torture, provided such torture have 
Truth in its centre, rather than surround me by the infi- 
nitely worse and inextricable agony of Lies which blas- 
pheme Thy majesty and mock Thy Holy Name! Dread 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 277 

God, in darkest Hell they know Thee, fear Thee, and re- 
cognize Thy justice— but on this earth it seems they 
know Thee not — they doubt Thy manifest existence, and 
are but evil shadows of an evil time. Make me not as 
one of these, Father Divine ! — pity me, pardon me, re- 
lease me, oh Thou, All-Powerful ! Elsewhere let me find 
the cleansing flames — but not here — not in this doomed 
and desolate world, where even Thy Light is made 
Darkness !” 

So prayed the prisoned soul, in silent musings that 
were in heaven clear utterances, distinctly heard. And 
presently the longed-for answer came — an answer swift, 
sweet and penetrative, that filled the aerial essence of the 
suffering immortal with a joy exceeding the limits even 
of angelic speech. Slowly expanding its hidden fibres 
and gathering all its winged force, the undying creature 
pressed toward its granted liberty. The body of the in- 
fant quivered convulsively in the throes of the impatient 
spirit’s eager struggles — and once it gave a feeble cry. 
The nurse, however, more than half asleep, and absorbed 
in her own thoughts did not hear, and the piteous sound 
was not repeated. Silence and peace reigned in the 
room, till, at the appointed hour, a quick tread upon the 
stairs announced the doctor, and Nurse Collins rose to 
receive him. He was a big, burly, good-humored man, 
and entered, smiling pleasantly. 

“Well, nurse ? How are we all ?” he inquired in cheery 
accents. “Ah, Mrs. Elverton!” This, as his patient 
turned on her pillows, awake and bright-eyed — “You 


278 The Soul of the Newly-Born. 

are looking almost yourself again ! And your husband s 
away, I hear? Ah! well, perhaps it’s a good thing. You 
must be kept quiet; no worry and no excitement. Your 
pulse is excellent — if you go on as well as this, you’ll be 
about again in a couple of weeks’ time. And how’s the 
baby ?” 

As he spoke he advanced, large, genial and still smil- 
ing, toward the crib. 

“It’s been asleep some time, sir,” said Nurse Collins, 
uncomfortably conscious that she had not looked at it 
for at least three-quarters of an hour. “It’s a quiet little 
thing, though, when it’s awake — almost too quiet, I 
fancy.” 

“Well, well, there’s no harm in its being quiet,” said 
the doctor, amiably. “Just let me see ” 

He touched the infant’s forehead, gave a slight start, 
and bent down his ear to listen. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, aghast. “Nurse! 
This child is dead !” 

With a shock of alarm the nurse sprang to his side, 
incredulous. He lifted the little body up in his arms ; it 
was yet warm. The small face was very white and chill 
— a pretty pathetic smile rested on the tiny mouth. The 
doctor made his examination tenderly, and shook his 
head. 

“Some sudden convulsion, with contraction of the 
heart,” he said. “Life has been extinct quite twenty 
minutes.” And with kindly pity he laid the dead baby 


The Soul of the Newly-Born. 279 

back in its crib, carefully composing its fragile limbs. 
“Break it to the mother gently.” 

But Mrs. Elverton had heard; and, burying her head 
in her pillows, was sobbing hysterically. Not in sorrow, 
but in joy! — joy, and such exquisite relief as she had 
never dared to hope for. Weeping in apparent despair, 
she murmured over and over again, amid her tears : 

“Thank God ! Oh, thank God !” 

And up through the 'star-strewn spaces of the night, 
a radiant angel, released from brief bondage, soared 
higher, and ever higher, like a bird, to the glory of the 
sun; the soul of the newly-born returned to Him who 
made it; and its happy Voice, echoing far into the centres 
of Eternal Light, sang again and again till the song was 
caught up in a triumphant chorus by hosts of its heavenly 
companions : 

“Thank God for escape from the World and its Dark- 
ness ! Oh, thank God !” 


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